


Hermione as ... Pure Blood

by SparringWoodpecker



Series: Hermione as... [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disabled Hermione Granger, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparringWoodpecker/pseuds/SparringWoodpecker
Summary: On the run, stuck at Grimmauld Place, trying to work out their next move, Hermione wonders if there isn't some way to falsify a magical DNA test. The results are unexpected and have massive ramifications on her life.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Series: Hermione as... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929448
Comments: 344
Kudos: 874





	1. Grimmauld Place

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a oneshot to start a series of Hermione as... which will predominantly be Fleurmione stories. This got a little carried away but I wanted to start getting it out there whilst I rounded it off and started work on the next one.

Miserable, confused, stuck, no way forward, no way back, the golden trio hunkered down in Grimmauld Place and did their best to come up with a plan. For her part, Hermione gathered all the books in the house she could find. There was a surprising amount of information the sacred twenty-eight kept to themselves, and if any family had secret information on the dark arts and horcruxes, it would be the Ancient and Moste Noble House of Black.  
  
Instead, what Hermione found was the spell behind the tapestry in the drawing room, the one Sirius’ mother had a fondness for burning holes in. With their limited knowledge of the outside world gathered from scrounged newspapers and the biased wireless, they knew that a muggle-born registry had been set up and that muggle-borns were being accused of stealing magic. With nothing better to do, and feeling helpless, Hermione dedicated herself to seeing if there was anything to be done with this spell.  
  
During her time at Hogwarts, Hermione had kept up with her muggle education. Her parents had sent her articles, and brought her textbooks and workbooks, she had read the English course texts and found past papers to practice with. When fourth year came around, she had special dispensation from the ministry to sit her GCSEs. She hardly remembered it. She had been so consumed with everything else. She thought she hadn’t slept the year before with her time turner, it was nothing compared to two loads of coursework, S.P.E.W., plus the struggle to keep Harry alive. No wonder she had accepted the first offer that came to the Yule Ball without any thought and then promptly been too distracted to let it go anywhere. Her exams had taken place after Voldemort’s return, because the ministry didn’t believe Harry.  
  
The next year, Umbridge had scarred the words ‘I shall only study pre-approved course material’ onto her skin. The words lingered there still, less prominent than Harry’s own scar, but ever present.  
  
She had been forced to wait to take her A Levels. Now she wouldn’t find out the results. Now she wouldn’t take her N.E.W.T.s.  
  
But she could use what she did know, certificate or not, pre-approved or not. Muggle science taught her DNA, and she was going to find a way to weave that knowledge into bending the spell. If 97% of human DNA is the same as a banana, the ability to forge the spell to link a muggle-born to a wizard line must be targeted at such a small portion of DNA, it couldn’t be hard.  
  
So whilst the boys were ‘strategy planning’ over another game of wizards chess, Hermione locked herself away in another room to begin the process of magical science.  
  
She decided that the first step would be to cast the spell, to see how it worked without any intervention. She had a lock of Ron’s hair. There were never any questions any more between them, when she asked for their hair, they gave it. Implicit trust, and probably the assumption that she had a plan, that she was brewing Polyjuice potion, the only thing they would think hair useful for even though it had a lot of uses.  
  
She waved her wand over Ron’s hair and it dissolved, dust flying onto the parchment open in front of her. It settled and spread, sinking into the paper, inking it, colouring the yellow with distinctive red.  
  
After a few minutes of watching, the paper had filled itself out with the Weasley family tree, or at least the main branch of it, it was far too large and ungainly to follow every off-shoot and from what Hermione had read from ‘The Pure-Blood Directory’ she believed the family went back generations further than was shown on the parchment.  
  
Hermione nodded to herself. The connection to the Black family on both sides tied in with what she already knew or had surmised from what the Weasley’s or Sirius or even the portrait of Sirius’ mother had said. All the Weasley siblings were there. It seemed an accurate portrayal from what she knew. Though curiously, Bill wasn’t listed as married, perhaps it needed time for the official records to update?  
  
Next, she tried her own hair. Hair of a muggle-born. It would either show nothing, or act as a normal trace of her DNA and show her muggle parents and grandparents. From there, she could work out how to adapt the spell. And whose family tree she should fit herself into. Ron seemed a likely candidate, as there were so many Weasley’s, but then again, there was nobody around to contest Harry’s.  
  
She cut a chunk of hair from her own head and cast the spell.  
  
It seemed to last longer this time, though she was sure that was just her imagination, as the dust transformed itself into ink on a new piece of parchment, straining out to the edges.  
  
When it settled, she blinked down at a water-colour depiction of herself at the bottom of the page, a single line connecting up to her parents. Her mother’s line continued one way, her father’s another, arching out across the paper.  
  
She looked at the faces of her parents, now in Australia, her image removed from their memories and their pictures. This was the only place they were together now.  
  
Hermione blinked. Something wasn’t right. Her mother’s maiden name wasn’t Gage. She read the names for the first time, looking beyond the images. Jean Gage, Cyrille Lestrange, Hermione Lestrange.  
  
No. Something had gone wrong. Her mother had been Jean Smith, her father Cyril Granger.  
  
She pushed the paper away. She almost set it on fire, but something stilled her hand. Instead, she shoved it to the bottom of her beaded bag, and tried not to think about it.


	2. The Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans well-made and well-broken see the Golden Trio infiltrate the ministry and fall captive at Malfoy Manor. Hermione's newly discovered secret weighs on her.

Plans began to pick up, ideas were set in motion, and soon Hermione found herself in the mousy body of Mafalda Hopkirk. In the body of Mafalda Hopkirk and next to none other than Umbridge.  
  
Hermione focuses in on sound to paper, not taking in any of the words as she transcribes proceedings int the court room, she can’t. She won’t cope if she does.  
Then she spots it. The horcrux. Hanging around Umbridge’s neck.  
  
“That’s a nice necklace,” she ventures to say, the first thing she’s said all day it feels like.  
  
“Oh, this,” Umbridge asks, showing it off. “It’s a family heirloom. I’m related to the Selwyn’s you see. Unlike some people.” Her eyes bore into the poor woman they are ‘investigating’.  
  
“That’s so interesting,” Hermione continues, not caring if it’s a lie or not. “With being an Umbridge, it’s so nice to have that link. Not everyone would have something like that.” Umbridge glowers at her, but she presses on. “Is there a spell or anything which would prove,” Hermione feels sick saying it, “blood purity for those without such an obviously remarkable heirloom.”  
  
Umbridge scowls further. “This wouldn’t be necessary if there were.” Hermione feels a band loosen around her chest, suddenly glad that she hasn’t unwittingly made things worse. “The Blacks had a spell to trace ancestry, but with the end of their line, no one else seems to have it, or at least is admitting to it. Of course, it’s self-updating, so I have been added to the Selwyn tree.”  
  
“Of course,” Hermione acquisists. “And that was a fool proof spell?”  
  
Umbridge hummed.  
  
“A shame we don’t –”  
  
That’s when Harry goes all hero-complex and knocks Umbridge out and everything goes to hell.  
  
Hermione does not have time to deal with thinking when she has to deal with not being back at Grimmauld Place, not having Kreacher help with dinner, not having a shelter and beds set up. There’s a splinched Ron, a random wood, a tent to set up, and wards to erect and the boys aren’t being helpful.  
  
The boys not being helpful continues to be the theme of life, especially once Ron starts feeling his stomach empty.  
  
And then he leaves.  
  
Suddenly there seems to be a lot more time for just thinking. And just thinking revolves a lot around the fact that the ancestry spell is fool proof and that means…  
  
When Ron comes back, after a lovely Christmas present courtesy of You-Know-Who himself, it’s with tales of Fleur and Bill’s new cottage, of the wireless that Fred and George have set up, of Fleur and Bill not being married because the wedding never got completed legally and it was too dangerous now.  
  
She doesn’t know why she fixates on that so much. Maybe because it really is the final nail in the coffin, the only thing she could have been holding out hope on was that Fleur wasn’t on the Weasley tree. But she wasn’t Fleur Weasley. The spell was still correct, and Hermione was still listed as Hermione Lestrange.  
  
Whilst Ron sat muttering and taping at the stupid wireless that did nothing but hiss static, Hermione devoted herself to reading everything she could on memory charms. Her parents couldn’t have lied that effectively, they truly knew nothing about the wizarding world, which led to only one conclusion. The more reading she did, the more it explained why there had been push back to her own memory charm, though at the time she had put it down to inexperience.  
  
And the more she read, the more she worried. Memory charm upon memory charm wasn’t healthy. Could she ever get them back? And what would she be undoing? Would the original memory charm be broken as well? Where would that leave them? And why had it been set in the first place? On a Lestrange.  
  
Ron’s tapping tipped her irritation over, words of anger began to surface, but she was cut off by the sound of another voice. Harry was too. For the first time in months, they enjoyed the sound of friends.  
  
It doesn’t last.  
  
Soon they are running through the woods from Snatchers. Fast. Faster. Never fast enough.  
  
Before the trio knows it, they are bound and being led to Malfoy Manor. Even with Voldemort on their heels in Godric’s Hollow, Hermione has never felt more afraid.  
  
Bellatrix leers at them, leers at Harry’s stung face, until she sees the sword in the Snatcher’s hand. Then she is all fury.  
  
Hermione is thrown to the floor, the boys taken away.  
  
Bellatrix pins her down, arm pressing into her windpipe, teeth out and feral.  
  
“How did you get the sword? How did you get into my vault? What else did you take? Answer me, you filthy mudblood.”  
  
The screaming continues, the insults continue, the cruciatus flies. All that Hermione can think is vault. Lestrange Vault. There’s something else in the Lestrange Vault.  
  
She whimpers and begs as claws scratch into her, as a knife teases her skin open. She’ll never be able to pass the information on.  
  
“It’s a fake,” Hermione gasps. “It’s a fake.”  
  
“Fetch the goblin!” Bellatrix commands, hysterical.  
  
Hermione thinks she’ll have a reprieve, but the knife is back, drawing blood from her collar bones. In a flash it flicks down to her arm and cuts away the sleeve.  
“Let’s register the muddy blood,” Bellatrix cackles and the blade sinks in – deeper than before.  
  
Hermione writhes and screams.  
  
Bellatrix laughs and the blade switches direction.  
  
“Mmmm,” she lets the noise fall in a long hum as she completes the first letter. “Uuuh,” she starts.  
  
Hermione snaps. “I’m not a mudblood!”  
  
The blade pauses, still sunk into her flesh.  
  
Without warning, Bellatrix lunges forward and bites at Hermione’s neck, hard enough to draw blood, blood which glistens on her teeth as she leans back, her whole weight on Hermione’s stomach. “Tastes like dirt to me.” She spits in Hermione’s face.  
  
“I’ve got purer blood than your dark lord.” Hermione doesn’t know where this viciousness comes from. She doesn’t even believe in the blood purity nonsense, wants nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with the Lestrange’s, especially the one above her, but if it can stop the pain.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
If anything, it makes it worse.  
  
Bellatrix’s fists fly, her hand slashes, holding both knife and wand, Hermione’s body convulses.  
  
It only stops when Griphook is hauled into the room. Even then, it doesn’t really stop. Bellatrix’s boot grinds into Hermione’s hand as she stands to watch the evaluation.  
  
A few more kicks once it is done have Hermione veering in and out of consciousness, hardly aware of the fight that takes place nor the rescue.  
  
She comes to in a bed, the gentle sound of waves and the smell of salty air coaxing her awake.  
  
Hermione tried to sit up, but pain wracked her body, pulling a loud moan from her.  
  
Quickly, she was joined on the bed by a woman. By Fleur. Her brain froze for a second.  
  
“’ermione, lie still,” Fleur said in a gentle voice, ginger hand easing her back down.  
  
“Fleur?” Hermione questioned.  
  
“Oui. You are at Shell Cottage. Bill and I ‘ave been staying here.”  
  
“How?” Hermione winced as she inadvertently shifted again.  
  
“You arrived a few ‘ours ago. I tried to mend your hand before I had to attend to Monsieur Ollivander. I am not much of an ‘ealer, I thought it better to let you rest before trying anything else.”  
  
“Ollivander?” Hermione tried to piece together anything but draws a blank. “Harry? Ron?”  
  
“They are… will be glad to ‘ear you are awake.”  
  
Hermione’s face betrayed her worry at the vague response.  
  
“The ‘ouse elf, ‘e did not make it.”  
  
This does little to clear Hermione’s confusion.  
  
“Let me tend to your wounds and then you can say your goodbyes.”  
  
Hermione is too tired to ask further questions, too tired to do anything but respond to Fleur’s small questions for consent as she removes layers of clothing with magic so as not to cause further pain. She can see the shocked grimace on Fleur’s face as her skin is revealed, but she doesn’t have the energy to analyse it. All she can do is moan as soothing fingers rub potion along her wounds so softly yet still too hard. Her body keeps convulsing with the aftershocks of the cruciatus. She knows the Fleur sees, she’s grateful she doesn’t ask.  
  
She falls into unconsciousness again, but not for long, judging by the dimming light coming through the windows when she wakes. Fleur is still there, and Hermione is dressed. With surprising strength, Fleur half-carries Hermione downstairs and out to the garden.  
  
A small crowd is gathered. Hermione sees Harry and Ron, standing and looking healthy. It gives her a little more energy. She also see’s Bill, of course, and Luna and Dean, which she doesn’t have an answer for. They look dirty and tired. And there, lying amongst the sand dunes next to a pit and shovel, is Dobby.  
  
Memories slide back into Hermione’s brain in shattered fragments. “Dobby is a free elf.” Dobby holding out his hand for her and Ron and Harry as Bellatrix screamed. Blood. The tight squeeze of apparition. “Harry Potter”.  
  
Tears track down Hermione’s face, and they don’t stop as the funeral is held and the grave is marked – Here lies Dobby, A free elf.  
  
Hermione is led back to the bedroom, worn out from tears for a creature she barely knew.  
  
Fleur cleans a few more wounds, muttering how she’ll have to write to a friend for advice, she isn’t sure why nothing is working.  
  
“Cursed blade,” Hermione says, barely more than a whisper. “And the cruciatus.”  
  
Fleur is unable to hide her anger.  
  
When Fleur moves to tend Hermione’s arm, turning it over so Hermione can see her injury for the first time, Hermione laughs. It’s a broken laugh, bordering on insanity.  
  
“Hush, ‘ush, mon petite, it will ‘eal.”  
  
Hermione continues to laugh, thinking of the words further down that arm, ‘Only pre-approved course material allowed’. Those words never left. Her arm of words. Words of hate and words of lies. This lie that Bellatrix had added is a crooked ‘Mudblood’. The hatred burned into the shaky handling of the blade, the fury of Hermione’s claim as the mad woman finished her mark.  
  
Yes, she was a mudblood. Muddied by the Lestrange blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the French accent - it does not improve in consistency from here


	3. Shell Cottage

Luna slept in the same room as Hermione for a while, though Hermione was still too wrecked from the torture of her body to do much more than allow a sleeping potion to provide her the rest she needed to heal whatever her body could naturally do itself.  
  
She was aware of Fleur coming in to check on her multiple times a day, to deliver potions and clean and redress her wounds.  
  
Slowly, she found herself migrating downstairs for mealtimes. It was unfair that Fleur had to take care of so many people and Hermione wanted to do whatever she could to make it easier for her. During her trip’s downstairs, she discovered that Harry, Ron and Dean were sleeping in the living room, and that Ollivander was upstairs as well as the goblin, Griphook, who had lied about the sword.  
  
Harry and Ron were keen to know what had happened to Hermione, but she wasn’t ready to tell them. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready. Just the sight of Ron’s face paling and hand creeping towards her as though he might need to assist her into a chair was enough to hold her tongue. And there were so many people around.  
  
Finally, in a few minutes of peace, she summarised what had happened.  
  
“I told her the sword was a fake.” She couldn’t say her name. “She sent for Griphook who confirmed what I said. But she was really concerned that we’d taken something else.”  
  
“There must be a horcrux there!” Harry said, immediately latching onto the idea.  
  
The boys began plotting, but Hermione was still too drained to be involved.  
  
She only became aware of any part of the plan when Bill announced one dinner that Dean, Luna, Ollivander and Griphook would be moved on to his Aunt Muriel’s house. The boys mentioned needing Griphook still.  
  
The next day, the plan to move people to Muriel’s went off without a hitch. The boys were moved to Ollivander’s old room and the house seemed at once quieter and more tense.  
  
That evening, Hermione was bracing herself to go upstairs, to face the ache of her bones every time she moved. As she contemplated the task, Fleur came downstairs with a pile of blankets and cushions.  
  
“Oh, ‘ermione, I did not realise you were still awake,” she said.  
  
“Are you expecting someone?” Hermione asked, thinking of when Lupin had dropped in.  
  
“Non. This is for me.”  
  
“Are you and Bill fighting?” Hermione asked, then regretted it, wondering if she was allowed to ask that kind of thing.  
  
But Fleur laughed.  
  
“We are not married.”  
  
“Ron said. I don’t get why not. Lupin and Tonks got married. And Arthur still worked at the ministry after the raid at the wedding, we saw him there, he could have submitted your certificate.”  
  
“The reason to get married no longer mattered.”  
  
Fleur sat beside Hermione on the sofa. “We are comfortable living togezer, it is nice not to be alone. We have our own rooms, our own spaces, and per’aps when the war is over, we shall continue as ‘ousemates, per’aps not.”  
  
“Just because you’re not getting married doesn’t mean you can’t live together or share a room,” Hermione argued.  
  
Fleur laughed.  
  
“You think we are saving ourselves for marriage or something? Non. Eet is too late for that. Bill is seven years older than I, ‘e has experience, and I have my own, with my preferred partners.”  
  
“Preferred… So you and Bill aren’t even dating?”  
  
“Non. We never have been.”  
  
“Then why?”  
  
“Eet was the easiest way to keep me in the country, with my blood especially.”  
  
Hermione processed the answer. Of course they couldn’t tell anyone their marriage was a sham, not if Fleur’s veela heritage was the obstacle they were trying to avoid.  
  
“You shouldn’t have to stay down here. It’s your room I’m in, right?”  
  
“I do not mind.”  
  
“Please, it’ll be good for both of us.”  
  
“You still have nightmares?” Fleur looked concerned, reaching for Hermione’s hand unconsciously before stopping herself.  
  
“You don’t? Everything is a nightmare now. But I needed less of the sleeping potion when Luna was in the room. I couldn’t nap alone.”  
  
“Then I will join you.”  
  
Fleur walked with Hermione upstairs, a steady hand on her back that Hermione leant on more than she was willing to admit, though she didn’t know if it was from needing physical strength or from the comfort it provided.  
  
When they reached Fleur’s room, Hermione pulled Fleur to the bed.  
  
“Share with me.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“It’s nicer than the floor, and you’ve already packed away the cot Luna was sleeping in.”  
  
They settled down for the night, each taking turns in the bathroom, until finally they were laid on either side of the bed, in darkness.  
  
Hermione could still hear the shallow breaths from the woman next to her that indicated she was awake. She didn’t know why, but she started talking.  
  
“She picked me because she thinks I’m worthless, dispensable. The first to be thrown aside when torture fails. She wanted to know stuff; answers I didn’t have. She’d already crucio’d me before asking, already taken a knife to my chest. When I didn’t have answers, she began carving that word into my arm. And I couldn’t help it, I told her that I wasn’t, that I had purer blood than You-Know-Who. That’s when she bit me. She didn’t believe me, but that’s what’s so stupid. I do have dirty blood. It’s filthy.”  
  
“Don’t say that!” Hermione could feel Fleur roll over and move closer to the centre of the bed.  
  
“It’s true. The dirtiest. Because I share her blood. Lestrange. I’m a Lestrange.” Hermione choked on the proclamation, the first time she had said it aloud.  
“What?” This time, Fleur’s hand did connect.  
  
Hermione blindly fumbled on the bedside table, her hand disappearing into the beaded bag on it, which had miraculously survived the trip to the manor. After rooting around elbow deep in the bag for a while, she withdrew the piece of parchment with her family tree on it, now crumpled up and battered.  
  
“Here,” Hermione said, passing it to Fleur.  
  
Fleur used her wand to cast Lumos, and not for the first time did Hermione miss her own vine wood wand which had been lost during their capture.  
  
Careful eyes scanned the family tree.  
  
“It’s a spell from the Black family,” Hermione explained. “I just…”  
  
Fleur’s arm hung heavy around her shoulders, and suddenly Hermione was buried against her chest, the paper discarded and eyes wet. “I don’t know who I am anymore. My whole identity in this world is based on being an outsider, I’ve been bullied for being a mudblood, I’m part of a war about blood supremacy, and now I find out that not only was my whole upbringing a lie, my whole life, but I’m one of the purest blooded families there is, that I’m fighting against.”  
  
“You’re not betraying the war, ‘ermione. It’s not a blood war, it’s about fighting dangerous ideals. People thinking something arbitrary makes them better. If anything, this shows you are fighting for the right reasons, that you fight even though you could be accepted by their views. And not all the sacred 28 view it that way, the Weasley’s do not. Blood doesn’t make you who you are.”  
  
“My life is still a lie though.”  
  
Fleur’s arm tightens as she shifts on the bed, staring out in contemplation. Eventually, Hermione’s sobs die down, and that is when Fleur speaks.  
  
“We cannot ‘elp what we do not know. We find things out about ourselves as we grow. Some we learn from, some we ‘ave to ‘ide. Growing up, learning, does not invalidate who we used to be. It builds on it.” Fleur’s voice sounded heavy, her eyes glazed over.  
  
Hermione fell asleep with Fleur’s words buzzing around in her brain and her arms securely around her.


	4. Gringotts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to steal the horcrux from Gringotts, but is there another way than the boys plan?

Tensions were rising the next day, with both Fleur and Bill unhappy about the secretive plans that the boys were making with Griphook and that Hermione had only been vaguely appraised of and was mainly blocking out. She didn’t want to think about the core element being her transformation into her torturer.  
  
“You can’t trust goblins,” Bill implored as Hermione came down to breakfast.  
  
“’ermione, please talk to them.”  
  
“I can’t. We need to do this.”  
  
Fleur glowered and pulled her aside. Hermione ignored the weird fluttering in her stomach.  
  
“There are other ways into Gringotts, if you would just talk to me.”  
  
“Other ways in…” Hermione repeated, distractedly, eyes wide and mind whirling. “Fleur! Who are vault’s open to?”  
  
“The owner of the vault?” Fleur responded confused.  
  
“But, the old vaults, the family vaults.”  
  
Fleur’s eyes also widened. “You can’t mean.”  
  
“Why not, right? A Lestrange claiming access to the Lestrange vault.”  
  
“’ermione, you are a wanted criminal.”  
  
“Do the goblins care about that? If I can get past the wizard guards, I’ll be all set, right?”  
  
“Theoretically, oui.”  
  
“Then we have to try it.”  
  
Fleur was reticent about the idea, but Hermione was determined. What she was less sure of, was letting Harry and Ron in on the secret of her ancestry. She didn’t want them to look at her differently and she still didn’t have any real answers. It was better to attempt this alone. However, Fleur wouldn’t let her.  
  
That was how, early the next morning, Hermione found herself polyjuiced into a random woman from the local village alongside a similarly polyjuiced Fleur, apparating into Diagon Alley.  
  
The sight of a Death Eater had them hanging back, but soon they were past the wizard guards and in the main atrium of Gringotts.  
  
Confidently, Fleur led Hermione through to a side room where complaints were dealt with. There they were met with a goblin, who didn’t even look up from his desk as they entered.  
  
Hermione felt her skin itch and twist, distorting back into her own features. Next to her, silver hair shimmered in the light, making her heart stutter a little. They were fully recognisable now.  
  
They approached the desk, and Hermione coughed a little.  
  
The goblin looked up with slow eyes scanning between them. “Ah, Miss Delacour. We did not expect to see you after you failed to complete your notice period.”  
  
“Unexpected times, Cartswift.”  
  
Cartswift slowly inclined his head before focusing on Hermione.  
  
“I would like access to my vault.”  
  
“Of course, Miss Granger, you have your key?”  
  
“Not that vault.” Hermione gulped. “The Lestrange vault. I have proof,” she quickly continued.  
  
Hermione had never seen a goblin surprised before. It unsettled her.  
  
She reached for a lock of her hair and used the hated wand won by Dobby at Malfoy Manor to perform a severing charm. Once she had the hair in hand, she pulled some parchment from her robes, unfurled it, and performed the tapestry charm.  
  
As before, her Lestrange/Gage lineage mapped out before her.  
  
Cartswift pulled the paper towards him and studied it in silence for several long minutes.  
  
“I will need a drop of blood to confirm there has been no tampering,” he said, holding out a needle.  
  
With a small hiss, Hermione pricked her finger upon its point. Both she and Fleur watched with tight breaths as the Goblin waved the rod through the air. A white trail followed.  
  
“Very well, Miss Lestrange. I will need to see your wand to complete your registration to the account.”  
  
Hermione looked nervously to Fleur, awaiting confirmation before handing the wand over.  
  
The specifics of the wand – that wand, now hers, the thought brought bile to her mouth, were marked down.  
  
“Will… Will the other account holders be notified?” Hermione asked, acid in her throat.  
  
“Not unless the information is requested.”  
  
Not sure how she felt about that, Hermione nodded along.  
  
“If you are ready, we can proceed to your vault now.”  
  
Hermione nodded, and both she and Fleur began to follow.  
  
“Just the Lestrange,” Cartswift interjected.  
  
“Fleur’s my fiancé,” Hermione quickly countered without thinking. “She’ll be a Lestrange soon too.”  
  
Cartswift paused midstride. “Very well.”  
  
They followed him down to the carts. Fleur whispered in Hermione’s ear all about the thief’s downfall as they passed through it, all about the dragon that Hermione pitied, and all about how the older vaults didn’t need keys.  
  
“Are there any charms we should know about before we enter?” Fleur asked.  
  
“The gemino charm has been cast over the contents, but as a registered account holder, Miss Lestrange will be immune to it. Miss Delacour will not be so fortunate.”  
  
Fleur glared at Cartswift, and Hermione tried to work out what part of a gemino charm would necessitate that warning. She couldn’t recall any. There must be another charm in place. Or curse. That must be it. Fleur had only asked about charms. The goblin was being deliberately tricky. Skipping out of that notice period really had offended them.  
  
“I’ll go in alone. Wait for me here.”  
  
Hermione entered the vault. It was pitch black and huge, her lumos barely reaching the edges.  
  
Now, she just had to find the horcrux. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff or something Gryffindor besides the fake sword she could see on the wall. Or maybe something else entirely that they hadn’t even thought of. After all, there’d been You-Know-Who’s diary and his grandfather’s ring. It could be anything.  
  
She cast her eye around, over mountainous piles of galleons and jewels and items she wouldn’t want to touch with a barge pole. Then her eyes alighted on a badger. An embossing of a badger on a golden cup on a high shelf. That had to be it. Hufflepuff’s cup.  
  
Cautiously, she edged her way forward.  
  
Her toe nudged a pile of galleons, sending them tinkling to the floor.  
  
“Are you okay, ma belle?” Fleur’s anxious voice called from outside.  
  
Hermione looked down. Nothing had multiplied.  
  
“All good.”  
  
With more confidence, she continued.  
  
The second her fingers closed around the cup, she could feel the drain on her emotions, just like the locket. She wanted to feel jubilant. She couldn’t.  
  
“I’m done.” She pounded on the vault door.  
  
It didn’t open. They had left her to die in here. The dragon had eaten them. Bellatrix had discovered the plan.  
  
The door opened.  
  
Fleur smiled.  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
As soon as they passed back through the thief’s downfall, they both retook their Polyjuice potion and as soon as they were able, apparated back to the outskirts of Shell Cottage.  
  
They were met with suspicion and hostility when they crossed the wards, until they remembered they were wearing the faces of strangers.  
  
“Where have you been?” Ron demanded.  
  
“We were worried,” Harry added.  
  
“We got it,” Hermione said.  
  
The boys looked confused. Their confusion turned to awe when she pulled out the cup.  
  
“How?”  
  
“Sometimes all you have to do is ask.”  
  
“You just strode into one of the most protected buildings in wizarding Britain and asked to get into a high security vault?!” Ron was nearly blowing steam from his ears.  
  
“Well, Bill and I did used to work there,” Fleur answered.  
  
Harry and Ron looked on in disbelief as Hermione and Fleur went inside to change back into their normal clothes. Once back to herself, Hermione came out with the cup.  
  
“Here, we might as well destroy this now.”  
  
“You should do it, Hermione,” Ron said.  
  
“Okay. So I just, stab it? Nothing special with parseltongue like the locket?”  
  
“Shouldn’t be,” Harry said, fetching the sword from the beaded bag.  
  
“Just watch yourself. It puts up a fight,” Ron warned.  
  
Hermione braced herself. She hefted the sword in her hand.  
  
She swung.  
  
An apparition appeared, stilling her momentum. Fleur, kneeling before her, hand up as though to deflect the blade.  
  
Hermione’s hand wavered.  
  
The boys were shouting, but she couldn’t make sense of them.  
  
“Hermione,” the apparition spoke, words coiling softly, without a trace of an accent. It stood, Hermione following the motion weakly with the blade. “Hermione.” A cold hand, an echo of a breeze, caressed Hermione’s cheek.  
  
She breathed in a shaky breath.  
  
“I know you want to be my preferred partner.”  
  
The image dispersed, resolving itself into the vague likeness of herself and Fleur wrapped in each other’s arms, lips pressed tightly together. Hermione felt heat coil through her belly, her ears rung too loud to hear anything.  
  
“It’s a pity you’re not worthy enough.” The apparition bared her teeth, eyes like hawks, before plunging back into the other figure, except this time, it wasn’t Hermione, it was Bill.  
  
He turned, licking his lips. “You don’t deserve her. You’re rotten to the core. You’re going to go evil, it’s in your blood, just like her. Just like Bella–”


	5. The Battle of Hogwarts

“No!” Hermione found herself yelling, the sword aimed straight for Bill.  
  
The release of energy as the sword made contact with the cup, cleaving it in half, was enough to send the trio falling backwards.  
  
“What was that about?!” Ron demanded, throwing Hermione further.  
  
“Hey! Hey!” Fleur was there in an instant, pulling Ron back, and Bill was there not long after, separating the veela from the red head.  
  
The fight looked like it was about to escalate, but Harry let out a pained shout. He was bent double, hand clasped to his head.  
  
“He knows. He knows we’re after horcruxes. He felt it. We have to get to Hogwarts. The last one is there!”  
  
Hermione looked to Fleur, wanting to say something, to explain, anything. Fleur shook her head.  
  
“We’ll get reinforcements,” Bill said. “You go on ahead.”  
  
“Where’s the sword?” Ron asked, looking around in vain.  
  
A loud cackle drew their attention to the edge of the property. Griphook waved the sword of Gryffindor in the air, the light glinting of the silver. He vanished.  
  
“Bloody Goblins!” Ron swore.  
  
“We don’t have time!” Harry yelled, frantic. “He’s going to check all of them. Get the bag!”  
  
Ron raced into the cottage as Harry doubled over once again, looking almost sick.  
  
Hermione wasn’t feeling too great herself. Her stomach was churning, and the world seemed out of focus. “He’s right. I am just like her.” Hermione rubbed her arm, staring into the space where the spectre of Bill had stood before she had smitted him.  
  
“You’re not her,” Fleur promised, grasping onto Hermione’s shoulders. “You don’t share ‘er blood.”  
  
Hermione hiccupped. “What does that say about the man who married her then?” Hermione barely whispered.  
  
“He’s just one man. One Lestrange. Blood doesn’t make you who you are,” Fleur echoed her sentiments from nights before.  
  
Ron ran back, bag in hand, and snatched Hermione out of Fleur’s grip. “Come on!” he yelled, glaring at Fleur.  
  
Harry pulled himself back to the present enough to run with them to the outskirts of the property, Fleur’s eyes burning into them as they went. Hermione caught sight of the heavy gaze as the trio twisted on the spot, one last look at silver hair, of comfort, before the world compressed and blackened.  
  
The rush to get into Hogwarts took Hermione’s mind off the long look Fleur left her with as they dissapparated. She didn’t have time to analyse whatever a segment of Voldemort’s soul thought it saw in her. There wasn’t space to think of anything but surviving.  
  
Ron came up with the idea of going to the chamber of secrets to get basilisk fangs. He decided to go alone. Hermione offered to check Ravenclaw’s tower – that had to be what the final horcrux was, an item of Ravenclaw.  
  
And then the battle started.  
  
Hermione found Harry and Ron at the entrance to the room of requirement. Harry had spoken to the Ravenclaw tower ghost, the diadem was in there.  
  
And everything went wrong.  
  
They barely made it out with their lives. Crabbe did not. But the diadem was destroyed. All that was left was the snake.  
  
The next hours were confusing and painful. A blur of explosions and death. Then there are moments of shocking clarity. The moment Hermione struck her first man to the ground, lifeless. The moment she saw greyback leap at her Hogwarts dormmate – never to see the conclusion as battle swept her away. The tide of house elves and centaurs and giants and acromantula, all blurring together but each desperately vivid in her mind. Each shock of silver hair.  
  
And then there was the curly, matted black hair. The taunting of slurs and vicious leer of curses. Hermione stood side by-side with Fleur -for the first time – fighting for her life, whilst her blood boiled. Ginny also fought the mad witch, and it was all the three of them could do to hold back her assault.  
  
“Look at the little bitches,” Bellatrix nearly crooned as she sent a purple arc of light whizzing past Ginny. “A blood traitor, a half-breed, and a mudblood.”  
  
Another arc of light, this time towards Fleur. Hermione threw up a shield charm just in time.  
  
Bellatrix locked eyes on Hermione, and her arm swept down, a too familiar word on her lips.  
  
Hermione’s body buckled; nerves electrified.  
  
But she was still standing.  
  
Fleur had her arm tossed in front, returning the favour of the shield charm.  
  
Bellatrix shook the unlanded spell off with a glimmer of manic amusement.  
  
“How did you do it, muddy? How did you get into my vault?” Another curse, aimed low, which Ginny not so nimbly jumped over.  
  
“Ask the goblins,” Hermione hissed before launching a shower of red sparks her way.  
  
Bellatrix’s eyes went wide, then narrowed dangerously. “Cyrille.”  
  
A green flash of light right towards Hermione.  
  
“Not ‘ermione, you bitch,” Fleur cursed, sending an identical curse back.  
  
Bellatrix cackled, though her eyes still sparked angrily.  
  
The sound bounced around the Great Hall, what remained of the Great Hall. Behind the witch, Neville’s head snapped up, and with a savage scream he tore away from the group he was engaged with and launched himself at Bellatrix.  
  
Bellatrix’s latest curse was sent skittering wildly across the floor as her arm was forced to the ground, her body stumbling beneath the wait of a near-fully-grown teenager.  
  
The three witches paused, unsure what to do, until Neville raised his eyes and met Hermione’s, flickering past her scarred arm, where her sleeved had been slashed aside by a near miss, on the way.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
Hermione raised her wand, arm trembling, fingers barely able to grasp her wand as her nerves still protested the phantom pain, vicious words tumbling through her mind.  
  
She looked at Bellatrix, struggling in Neville’s grip, then to Neville again. He pushed the witch as much as he could before him, without losing his grip. His eyes dared Hermione, ready to accept the fallout of whatever spell she chose.  
  
Fleur grasped Hermione’s shoulder, her hand comforting and steady, her own wand beginning to raise, an offer.  
  
“Lestrange’s don’t fuck half-breeds muddy,” Bellatrix snarled.  
  
“This Lestrange does,” Hermione replied without thought, only aiming for maximum damage before she released a slashing curse on Bellatrix’s neck.  
  
The blood spurted out, covering everyone, everything.  
  
Hermione didn’t move. Just stood and watched the shocked anger slowly die from Bellatrix’s eyes, leaning against the solid presence of Fleur.  
  
And the battle continued.  
  
It had to.  
  
But now, Fleur was always there.  
  
Then suddenly, everything stopped. Hermione’s head was filled with a voice she would never remember but could never forget. The feeling of it would stay with her forever. The dread, the cold, the overwhelming sympathy that this, this, was what Harry had experienced alone for years.  
  
The following hour was like a dream, or like a film she had once watched. She knew the plot, she knew she had gone to the Shrieking Shack, had seen Snape die, but it contrasted too heavily to everything else to seem real. Even the grief of standing in the Great Hall with the Weasley’s, with Fred, with Lupin, with Tonks, with Colin, with the confirmation that Lavender was gone, it seemed like she was an outsider for those precious moments of calm. And how could it really be calm when Bellatrix’s body was piled in the corner, and her blood soaked the stones? Soaked her clothes?  
  
And then, sharpness again, the true moment of gut-wrenching heartbreak, of defeat.  
  
“Harry Potter is dead.”  
  
No. No. Where was he? No.  
  
Hermione prided herself on being detail oriented. On being a know-it-all. She could never say what happened next. How Harry stood and fought. How they all fought. How Voldemort fell. Hermione prided herself on the details, but for once she was glad she forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liberties were taken in this chapter. I'm aware that the battle didn't happen in this order and that I very much sidelined Griphook and the sword, however I wanted to keep the pace up and try and keep cannon in line as much as I could considering how much else I've changed. From here on out I'm not navigating around the framework of cannon.


	6. The Aftermath

In the hours that followed, the days, the weeks, Hermione knew very little.  
  
Grief and jubilation were swirling in a weird mixture. A mixture that ought not to exist.  
  
There were funerals. So many funerals. Stories of lives lived and lives yet to be lived. Every day reports of new arrests, of new dark objects being set off, of ministry officials being rooted out.  
  
Hermione followed everything avidly, and absently.  
  
At first, she and Harry had gone to the Burrow with the Weasleys. However, the grief had almost tinged the air.  
  
Harry had offered up Grimmauld Place to any who needed it, and so she ended up there, along with the Lovegoodsm Trewlawney, a smattering of others, and Harry - when he wasn’t with the Weasleys. The mixture and constant reminder of Bellatrix on the Black family tree was too much.  
  
Hermione was still pressured into regularly attending the Burrow for dinner. Mrs Weasley liked a full house and made sure that it was over full to cover Fred’s absence, and George’s quiet. Bill and Charlie had moved back in, at least temporally, as well as Ron and Ginny, and Harry and most of the order appeared more often than not. Fleur, as her almost-daughter-in-law, was also a regular guest and Percy made a good showing, still awkwardly trying to mend a bridge that had already been forgiven.  
  
It was nearing Harry’s birthday when Hermione found herself out in the garden at the Burrow, wondering how so much had happened in a year. She had been here, probably in this very spot, a year ago, feeding the chickens, as they all planned how to get Harry out of his aunt and uncle’s, whilst planning a wedding and what to do for his birthday. And here they were again, planning Harry’s birthday, his muggle coming of age – were they really that young?  
  
Hermione wanted to help plan. Mr Weasley knew 18 was a significant birthday for muggles and having lived with muggles it would mean something to Harry. But going out drinking or clubbing or whatever didn’t really seem like something Harry would be up for. Not now.  
  
Ginny sidled up to her.  
  
“How’s things?”  
  
Hermione snorted.  
  
“Yeah. I know. I just came to say dinner’s almost ready. Dad just got in with Kingsley and Fleur’s due any second.”  
  
“She’s coming?”  
  
“Got nowhere better to be, now Bill’s here; it’s just her at Shell Cottage.”  
  
Hermione hadn’t really thought about that.  
  
“I don’t know why she doesn’t just go back to France,” Ginny said, but without the hint of bitterness that would have been there a year ago. Now it was just tired, resigned.  
  
“Bill’s here,” Hermione reasoned.  
  
Ginny let out a short, dry laugh. “They’re not married.”  
  
“I know.” Hermione felt a blush on her chest as the murmured whisper rose to her mind again. ‘Preferred partner’. She squashed the thoughts that threatened to trail it down once more. No, she still didn’t have room to think about why that made her stomach flutter.  
  
Inside, the downstairs was crammed. Every chair of every type had been press-ganged into service around a groaning table. The unexpected, though also wholly not-unexpected arrival of the Lovegoods and Andromeda and baby Teddy pushing the place to a capacity that kept Mrs Weasley as busy as she needed to be.  
  
The sight of the curly black-haired witch for a moment left Hermione cold, until the giggles of her grandson, his toes being tickled by Harry in her lap, made her snap out of it. Still she sat at the opposite end of the table to Andromeda, out of eye line.  
  
It just so happened that this was next to Fleur.  
  
When a tremor rocked Hermione, sending her water spilling across the table, Fleur magicked it away before anyone else could notice.  
  
“Ma belle?” Fleur asked, tentatively placing a hand on Hermione’s leg beneath the table.  
  
“I got hit with a few more cruciatus curses after you treated me.” Hermione reached down to squeeze Fleur’s hand. Another tremor rocked her, and she leant towards the blonde for support. “It’s been hard getting potions ingredients and St Mungo’s has been so busy with people that really need them, so I’ve been using muggle medicine. It helps a little. Would you mind–” Hermione’s muscles tensed, her mouth falling involuntarily open. “bag,” she managed to say.  
  
Fleur accio’d Hermione’s bag and began rummaging through it without knowing what she was looking for.  
  
Eventually she found a packet of pills. She struggled to get one out of the packet, but when she did, she helped Hermione take it with a glass of water.  
  
“Two.” The word broke through Fleur’s concentration. She was suddenly aware that the table was subdued, watching. “She needs to take two,” Harry repeated.  
  
“Merci,” Fleur said, and did as bid.  
  
Slowly Hermione’s muscles loosened, and the pain receded. She became aware of the quiet, and of the arm slung around her back, rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder.  
  
“I’m okay,” she insisted, looking deep into Fleur’s eyes, before scanning the room, meeting every concerned gaze to convey the same message.  
  
It took some time, but eventually conversation started back up again. Everyone knew what it was like to have scars you wanted to hide.  
  
Fleur was the only one still with her attention on Hermione. Almost. Occasionally Hermione would catch Bill looking over, looking almost mischievous, a look that jarred heavily with everything else. And then there was Ron, eyes suspicious and locked on the hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Do you need to lie down?” Fleur asked.  
  
“No. No. That wasn’t a bad one.”  
  
“Wasn’t a– ‘ermione, you need to go to St Mungo’s.”  
  
“I will. But there’s people who need it more right now.”  
  
“Non, non, ‘ermione. If you could not, you should have let me take you to France, to ma mere, or ze hôpital Perenelle.”  
  
“It’s fine, really,” Hermione insisted, curling further into Fleur, forgetting about the meal and everyone else, holding back a yawn. “It’s not like Padma or Katie or even George and Bill. It’s just a few curses.”  
  
“Who iz looking after you at Grimmauld Place?” Fleur half demanded, and upon seeing a moment’s hesitation barrelled ahead. “You will come with me to Shell Cottage. Non, non, no arguments. You shall stay with me. And I shall look after you and have ma mère come if you will not go to St Mungo’s.”  
  
Hermione was in half a mind to protest, but the thought of returning to Shell Cottage, of going back to before the battle… even if things had not been simple then, it still somehow felt nostalgic. Everything felt nostalgic now. And the sea breeze, the space from others, yes, that should help.  
  
Hermione was barely aware of the Floo journey to Shell Cottage, and by the time she arrived she was near dead on her feet. It was to be expected, she had been sleeping a lot lately.  
  
Without thinking, she stumbled upstairs. It was only as she opened the door to the bedroom that she remembered that she had been in Fleur’s room the last time she had been there.  
  
“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning to the witch with a blush. “I wasn’t thinking.”  
  
“It’s okay. I think we would both rather crash, non? We can sort out anozer room tomorrow.”  
  
Hermione shot her a grateful smile. The familiar, travel-worn, beaded-bag was dumped on the bed and Hermione’s arm disappeared into it. Fleur hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but she did now, as Hermione muttered to herself “I know I have clothes in here somewhere. Merlin. Never mind, I’ll just sleep in this, if you don’t mind Fleur. I’m too tired to change anyway.”  
  
Fleur shook her head lightly. “Nonsense. Accio clothes.” She pointed to the bag and an old t-shirt and shorts rocketed out. With another flick of her wand, Hermione was dressed, a blush covering all her exposed skin – not that Fleur had seen anything more than she had before. “Much better, non? Iz there anything else you need?”  
“I should do my teeth. My parents would kill me if I didn’t.” Hermione got a faraway look in her eyes.  
  
“Has anything ‘appened about zat?” Fleur asked tentatively, silently summoning the required implements. She had to wait until Hermione had done her teeth, trailing her to the bathroom, to get a response.  
  
“Kingsley got in contact with the Australian ministry. We know where they are. But the… We’d need the best mind healers, and everyone’s too busy right now.”  
“Non, ‘ermione. Stop thinking like zat.” Fleur soothing rubbed Hermione’s shoulder once more.  
  
“It doesn’t matter. They’re happy. And it would be easier if I could help with at least the removal of my spell, but…” Hermione gestured around helplessly.  
“Do you not have a wand?” Fleur asked the question which had been bugging her as they settled into bed.  
  
“I do,” there was an edge to Hermione’s voice. “I haven’t used it since the battle.”  
  
Fleur thought for a moment. “Oh.”  
  
“I checked her body, in case, but it wasn’t, she didn’t use my wand. It’s gone.”  
  
“I am sorry, ma belle.”  
  
“It’s only a wand. People have lost worst.”  
  
The two stewed under that thought.  
  
“Per’aps when you are feeling better, we could take a trip to get you a new wand,” Fleur suggested.  
  
Hermione laughed a little. “Ollivander’s was burnt down, and he retired, and Gregorovitch wasn’t so lucky. There seems to be a short supply of wands these days.”  
  
“Then use mine until you feel ready to visit France. I know an excellent wandmaker.”  
  
“Wands don’t work like that. I can’t just use your wand.”  
  
“Say’s who?” Fleur shook her hair, reminding Hermione of the year she had first met the witch, and her arrogant air. The exaggerated affect now was almost enough to pull Hermione from her solemnity.  
  
“Harry could never get mine to work right.”  
  
“Try, brightest witch of ‘er age.” Fleur dangled the wand in front of Hermione, body pressed close to her in a taunting dare.  
  
“Fine.” Hermione huffed before taking the wand and silently casting red sparks. She was surprised when the wand responded easily. She investigated further. Charms, transfiguration, even a few quick hexes and curses followed by their counter-curses. Everything came with ease.  
  
“That’s…” but Hermione was too tired to think, the magic taking the last of her energy.  
  
Fleur plucked the wand from her fingers as Hermione drifted off, snuggled close to her side. With a final flick of the wand, the light was extinguished, and Fleur joined Hermione in sleep.


	7. Contracts

Hermione awoke to the soft sound of waves on the shore. The pleasant, calming sound slowly pulled her from unconsciousness, little by little, so that by the time she opened her eyes, Hermione was already aware that she was at Shell Cottage.  
  
What she hadn’t expected to find was that the sun was high in the sky, and Fleur Delacour was in bed with her, calmly reading whilst her waist was trapped beneath Hermione’s outflung arm.  
  
Instinctively, Hermione started to pull away, but slowed as she noted the feeling of satin over smooth skin beneath her fingertips.  
  
“Ah,” Fleur said with a smile. “Ma belle, you are awake.” She placed her book down so she could rest a hand in Hermione’s tussled hair. “You slept well. How are you feeling?”  
  
“Rested.” Hermione yawned, contorting her body in a stretch which only pushed her closer to Fleur. When they’re bare legs touched, Hermione nearly jolted upright. “What time is it?” she asked, looking away from Fleur, a weird feeling in her chest.  
  
“Almost midday.”  
  
“Wow. I haven’t slept so long since… Merlin, I don’t know,” Hermione said, still not looking around.  
  
“Zhen I am glad. And ze day iz yours to do as you choose. We could stay ‘ere, in bed. Or go downstairs, or to ze beach. Whatever you want, ‘ermione. I ‘ave already owled Maman.”  
  
“The beach sounds good. I didn’t really get to see it last time.”  
  
“Oui,” Fleur said, sliding out of bed. Hermione turned at the movement, to be met with blue satin, pale skin, and long legs. Her mouth went dry. “I shall make some brunch. Join me when you are ready.”  
  
Hermione could only nod, her voice suddenly failing her. As her eyes trailed Fleur out of the room the whisper rose in her mind once more ‘preferred partner’. Hermione fell back on the bed. Maybe she shouldn’t have come to Shell Cottage.

If Hermione thought waking up in Fleur’s bed had been bad, it was nothing to down at the beach. Lying in the sand, hand shielding her face, wishing she had thought to bring a book, her eyes would often slip to Fleur’s bikini clad figure. Several times, she was sure that Fleur had caught her looking, yet the other witch made no mention of it.  
  
Despite the long sleep, Hermione soon found herself drifting in the lazy sun. She told herself she wasn’t really sleeping; she could still hear the cry of the gulls overhead and the waves breaking on the shore. It wasn’t truly anything more than resting her eyes. Still she was jerked awake by the spasms rocking her body.  
  
Hermione grit her teeth, determined not to cry out and trying to control her movements. Maybe Fleur wouldn’t notice. The pain would subside, and the day could continue in peace.  
  
No such luck.  
  
“’ermione!” Fleur rolled over, though she seemed uncertain and helpless as Hermione began to succumb to the trembling in her muscles.  
  
Fleur was only just beginning to ease her fussing, as much as she ever would, when the pair were back in the kitchen of Shell Cottage and dinner was under way. Once again, Hermione’s muscles were aching, and her brain felt clouded. She had clung to Fleur for most of the walk back from the beach and was loathed to part from her as she set the kitchen going, though Fleur seemed equally reluctant to be too far. It was as the plates were being dished up that a heavy, demanding knock sounded at the door.  
  
Hermione and Fleur looked to one another in surprise. Hermione wished she had her wand, even though she trusted the wards Fleur had in place.  
  
Hand in pocket, Fleur went to answer the door.  
  
The falsely cheery voice of Ron echoed through the cottage. “Mum said ‘Mione was here. Thought I’d pop by to see how things are.”  
  
Ron loped through the house, leaving Fleur to trail behind him with a faint air of annoyance.  
  
“Mione!” He greeted as he saw her in the kitchen, immediately going to her and pulling her into a tight embrace.  
  
Hermione brought her hands to his back, but they fell away long before his own did.  
  
Finally, he pulled back. “Are you okay? Are you eating enough? You should come back to The Burrow with me. Mum would have you fed up in no time. She’s cooking so much even I can’t get through it.” His laugh was strained, and Hermione withdrew herself from him.  
  
“I’m fine, Ronald. We’re just about to have dinner.”  
  
“Oh great. I’m starving.” Ron pulled out a chair and plonked himself down at the table next to Hermione at the place clearly set for Fleur.  
  
“Ron, we weren’t expecting you…” Hermione hinted.  
  
Over Ron’s head, Fleur caught her eye. “It iz okay. We shall manage, and still keep ‘ermione filled up. Satisfied.”  
  
Ron choked on air, and Hermione had to look away from Fleur’s deviously victorious eyes as her own skin threatened to match the shade of red Ron’s was going – though for very different reasons, and she had to fight hard to stay still in her chair. Damn it, Fleur had to know what she had done. Had to have done it on purpose.  
  
As Fleur served up, leaning close to Hermione in the guise of putting plates on the table, Hermione began to get the distinct impression that she was being fought over. Which was of course nonsense, however as the meal progressed, with Fleur opposite her and Ron to her side, she was blatantly the centre of a lot of looks she was finding hard to assign any other meaning to.  
  
It was a relief when the meal ended.  
  
“I should head to bed. I’m tired, and I need to be ready for tomorrow.”  
  
“Oui, ma belle,” Fleur said, standing with her and flourishing her wand to send the dishes to cleaning by themselves. “Maman is an early riser; I would expect her here before midday.”  
  
“What’s happening?” Ron butted in, still chewing the last of his food.  
  
“Fleur’s mother is a healer.”  
  
Ron stood, wiping his hands on his trousers and quickly swallowing his food. “I should be here. Friendly face and all.”  
  
Hermione could practically feel Fleur’s anger, as though she was some kind of stranger and not a valued friend and one of the few to know her secret.  
  
“That’s a nice thought Ron,” Hermione interjected placatingly, before anything could escalate. “But I’m a big girl. You don’t need to worry.”  
  
“Nah, it’s no problem. Mum would like to know someone was here, tell her how everything goes. I can just crash on the sofa tonight.”  
  
Seeing this was not going to be a battle she won, Fleur sighed. “Non, don’t be ridiculous. You will ‘ave Bill’s room. It iz still made up.”  
  
“Cheers.” Ron grinned. “I’ll just floo Mum, let her know I won’t be back.”  
  
“Zhen we will leave you to eet. Wish Molly all ze best from us.” Fleur placed her hand on the small of Hermione’s back where it was swiftly making a home, and together they made their way upstairs.  
  
Hermione flopped down on Fleur’s bed without even thinking.  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into him.”  
  
The bed dipped and Hermione rolled over to face Fleur’s quirked eyebrow. “You don’t?”  
  
“Well, we did just go through a war where we both almost died countless times and his brother _did _die.”  
  
“I believe you are being deliberately obtuse, ma belle.”  
  
Hermione conceded the point by collecting her things and heading to the bathroom. She thought that was the end of the conversation, however Fleur was waiting for her when she exited. She was already in her satin nightgown and sitting in bed expectantly.  
  
“Are you so naïve that you need your eyes opened to that boy attempting to show ‘is feelings? Must I teach you ze ways of ze world?” Fleur slid a slow finger up Hermione’s arm.  
  
“Shove off,” Hermione grumbled through a laugh. That laugh broke Fleur’s almost sultry manner and she too laughed. “I know Ron likes me. And if you knew that, why were you trying to get a rise out of him at dinner?”  
  
“Ah, ma belle, I cannot let some boy sweep my fiancé away without a fight.” Fleur smirked at Hermione as she tried to place meaning to what she had said.  
  
“Is this about what I said at Gringotts? You’re such a troublemaker.” Hermione nudged Fleur with her shoulder.  
  
“Oui. But eet ez not me. Goblin’s take proclamations like that very seriously. It is a great offence to lie to them.”  
  
“It was for the war.”  
  
“A wizards war.”  
  
“Over a hundred goblins died.”  
  
“Eet iz of little matter to their pride. So, to save ramifications, we are engaged. Unless you like being security probed. No judgements.”  
  
“Merlin, no. But I don’t want to get married.”  
  
Fleur rolled onto her back, looking away from Hermione and towards the ceiling. “Of course. I understand. After a respectable period, we can break the engagement and you will be free with Ron.”  
  
“Fleur.” Hermione rolled to place a light hand on her arm. “That’s not what I said. I’m eighteen. I don’t want to get married to anyone now. Least of all Ron.”  
  
“Least of all?”  
  
“Shut up.” Hermione buried her head in the pillow close to Fleur’s neck. Time stretched out, and slowly, so did the two witches, until once again Hermione was snuggled against Fleur’s side.  
  
“Fleur,” Hermione ventured quietly. “How would someone break an engagement like ours? I’m not saying… Just, there’s been no announcement, nothing in the newspaper, no ring.” She traced her fingers over the place where an engagement ring should reside on Fleur’s hand, resting on Hermione’s own hip.  
  
“Goblin’s are magical creatures who specialise in contracts and legalities. In Britain, due to the Goblin wars, your use of them in the legal system has faded, but less so in other areas of the world. They, I do not know, they know contracts. You created one when you proclaimed our engagement in front of Cartswift. Words have power, even without the physical symbols. He could sense the contract. Any goblin could. We could void it with our own words at any time, I think, but it would be disrespectful to ‘ave used Cartswift so.”  
  
“Is that how you did it with Bill?”  
  
“Non. We never proclaimed our intentions to a goblin. It is a very bold statement to make, ma belle.”  
  
“So you just had a ring?”  
  
“Oui. It was one of the Weasley’s. I believe Molly now ‘as it and iz waiting to spring it on ‘er next child to show signs of engagement. I cannot work out eef she thinks Bill and I will change our minds, or eef she will give it to ‘arry, or maybe Percy now they are speaking again. Sometimes she looks between you and Ron, but–”  
  
Hermione’s hand shook.  
  
“Are you okay? Do you need your medicine?”  
  
“No. It’s fine. I’ve taken enough already today.”  
  
Hermione felt tears leaking from her eyes.  
  
“Oh, ma belle. Come.” Fleur pulled Hermione even closer and placed a kiss on her temple. The soft lips sent fire through her nerves in a completely different way to the cruciatus and Hermione couldn’t help but moan.  
  
“’Ermione?” Fleur asked, panicked, pushing her hair away from her face in firm, soothing strokes.  
  
“N-nothing. I’m good.” Hermione’s mind fogged over as she stared into Fleur’s eyes. “I have an amazing fiancé looking after me…” the words fell out of her mouth in a subconscious murmur that trailed off as she found herself leaning into Fleur, as warm breath tickled her lips.  
  
The door burst open.  
  
“Hermione, I need to talk… Hermione!” Ron reached for his wand. “Get away from her!”  
  
“Ronald Weasley, what do you think you’re doing?” Hermione demanded, as she and Fleur struggled to sit up.  
  
“She’s using her thrall on you,” Ron argued, wand pointed at Fleur’s chest, where his eyes lingered.  
  
“For Merlin’s sake,” Hermione muttered.  
  
“I know what you saw in the horcrux. I know you tried to kill my brother, the man she’s meant to be marrying. You need to snap out of it. Can’t you see she’s bewitched you with her bloody veela powers?”  
  
Fleur’s fists clenched and her eyes flashed dangerously.  
  
“Shut up, Ron. You don’t know anything,” Hermione said in disgust, getting out of bed to try and bring his attention away from Fleur, the particular area of his attention was sending furious protective coils through her stomach and she was glad she didn’t have a wand on hand for fear of what she would do to stop that look.  
  
“Oh yeah? So I didn’t see the horcrux ghost thing turn into Fleur and you kissing and then into my brother, who you then stabbed? Right, just my imagination. Just like it’s my imagination that Fleur’s lured you to her house and has now invaded your bed.”  
  
“This is her bed, moron.”  
  
“Exactly! Not content with my brother? You have to take Hermione from me as well? Well I won’t stand for it. I won’t let a stinking veela, not even a proper veela, corrupt –”  
  
“Fuck off, Ron!” Hermione launched across the room, fist raised ready to strike, when suddenly her body spasmed and she fell to the floor.  
  
Her mind vanished from the present.  
  
“Lestrange’s don’t fuck half-breed’s muddy.”  
  
Her arm throbbed.  
  
“fuck half-breeds.”  
  
“This Lestrange does.”  
  
“Does.”  
  
Blood spurting.  
  
“muddy.”  
  
Blood.  
  
Fleur’s hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Lestrange’s don’t fuck half-breeds.”  
  
Eyes going blank.  
  
Fleur’s hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Lestrange’s don’t fuck half-breeds,” Hermione gasped out as her throat unseized and her limbs slowed their jerking against the ground.  
  
Fleur’s hand was on her shoulder, gentle, non-restrictive, supportive.  
  
Ron loomed above her, his face pale.  
  
“Fetch a sleeping potion from the pantry,” Fleur instructed, without looking at Ron.  
  
“I’m fine,” Hermione said in a coarse voice once Ron had left.  
  
“Stop saying zhat,” Fleur insisted. “I know. I know what zhat was. When zhat was.” Fleur scooped her off the ground. Perhaps it was this show of strength, of being safely in her arms, that gave Hermione the boldness to respond.  
  
“Then you also know what I said next.” She felt more than heard the chuckle of a response.  
  
“The present tense was intéressante. Unless there is something I do not know about you, this is a conversation for anozer time, ma belle,” Fleur replied, lowering Hermione to the bed.  
  
“My fiancé,” Hermione corrected.  
  
Fleur raised an eyebrow. “My, you ‘ave changed your tune.”  
  
Hermione ran a hand over her face. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”  
  
“Zhen sleep. We ‘ave all ze time in ze world to talk.”  
  
So Hermione closed her eyes, the last impression before she drifted away from the conscious realm was a light pressure to her temple, and a murmuring of French.__


	8. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French is in italics

Ron was out in the garden when Hermione awoke. She went out to meet him with a steaming cup of coffee.  
  
“Mornin’” he greeted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got the sleep potion Fleur wanted, but you were already asleep by the time I came back.”  
  
“You didn’t say anything did you?” Hermione asked, already feeling a headache creeping in. Ron reddened. “What? What did you say?”  
  
“Nothin’. Honest. Just how she better not do you or Bill dirty. Then she told me to talk to Bill and he’d set my head on straight. So I reckon there must be something I’m not seeing. I mean, I saw a lot. That horcrux shit, well, shit that was a lot for me what I saw when I did it in. Maybe it’s not what it looked like. Mine wasn’t. Maybe it’s like, symbolism or some shit? Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, sure Ron.”  
  
Ron scuffed his foot into the flowerbed. “I’m going to go. Fleur was right, you need a healer and you weren’t going to get that at home or Grimmauld Place. You’re too stubborn ‘Mione. It’s good, but you gotta let us help. We’ve all got to help each other. So, you know you’re always welcome. Always. Mum’ll be expecting you and Fleur around for dinner soon. Like, you have to come, it’s inescapable. And of course there’s Harry’s birthday, can’t miss that.”  
  
“Of course not.” Hermione reached a tentative hand out for Ron’s shoulder. “I’m not abandoning you. I just, I need this. We’ll be there for Harry’s birthday, and Fleur mentioned celebrating her non-anniversary. You’ll be sick of the sight of us.”  
  
“Never.” Ron drew Hermione into a hug, which she returned, one arm outstretched to avoid spilling coffee over the two of them.  
  
She left Ron outside, saying a few respects to Dobby’s grave before he left the property line and apparated away. Inside, Fleur was alternating between making breakfast and plumping cushions, dusting immaculate surfaces, and microscopically rearranging items.  
  
“Fleur,” Hermione called, quickly latching onto a pan of scrambled eggs to prevent it from burning. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Oh, nozing. Just freshening the place up.” Fleur turned around from restacking the logs by the fire. “Get away from the oven, ‘ermione. You are my guest.”  
  
“A guest who doesn’t want burnt eggs,” Hermione retorted.  
  
“Merde.” Fleur rushed back to the kitchen and began tending to breakfast once more, mixing magic with non-magic as she finished the meal. “Ma belle, I promise this iz no indication of what I would be like as a wife,” Fleur joked, wrinkling her nose at the slightly over-done toast.  
  
Hermione plucked the bread from the air as it made its way towards the bin, determinedly set it on her plate and set about covering it in butter and jam. “Domestic skill is a very poor and antiquated way of valuing a woman’s worth in a marriage or out of it.”  
  
“You say this because you cannot cook,” Fleur teased.  
  
“Who do you think kept those boys alive all year? And that was without a microwave, thank you very much.”  
  
“A microwave?” Fleur queried, sitting down at the table with Hermione.  
  
“A muggle cooking thing. It kind of heats things up really quickly.”  
  
“Like fire?”  
  
“No. It’s…” Hermione sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it in wizard terms. I’d have to explain science to you, how the world works and what things are made of.”  
  
“I know what things are made of, ‘ermione.”  
  
“Atoms and cells and particles?”  
  
Fleur looked a little sheepish. “Non. But I would like to learn. Perhaps you could teach me?”  
  
“Okay, do you have a quill and paper?”  
  
And that was how Apolline found them, hunched over the table, breakfast half eaten and forgotten as Hermione laid down the basics of muggle science in order to explain what a microwave was.  
  
A small cough alerted the witches to the new arrival as the green glow faded from the fireplace.  
  
“Maman!” Fleur leapt up and rushed to greet her mother with a kiss on each cheek. “Zis is ‘ermione.” Fleur introduced as Hermione made her way over to the living room.  
  
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Delacour.”  
  
“Likewise, Miss Granger. Please, call me Apolline.”  
  
“Hermione.”  
  
“Fleur ‘as told me of your illness. We shall see what we can do, yes?”  
  
So for the next few hours, Hermione subjected herself to being prodded and poked and tested with various spells and potions. Fleur was always nearby, grabbing hold whenever her body started to shake.  
  
Apolline’s methodical practice and steady eyes took everything in. As they took a break for lunch, she declared that she would like to start experimenting with some therapies that afternoon.  
  
“ _So, you ask me here for this girl? But not when your lover was attacked by a werewolf?_ ” Apolline said in French.  
  
“ _She’s my friend, and he got admitted to hospital. She hasn’t._ ” Fleur similarly responded.  
  
Apolline hummed sceptically.  
  
“ _Why do you have to be like this?_ ”  
  
Hermione coughed loudly. “Just so you know, _je parle français._ ”  
  
Apolline had the grace to look embarrassed, and whilst Fleur also looked embarrassed, there was also a proud tinge to her cheeks. “You understood all that?”  
  
“Enough to follow it.” Hermione rubbed at her hand, the words carved there. “I studied it at A level. The muggle NEWT equivalent. I don’t know if I passed though. The ministry had fallen by the time my results were set to be released.”  
  
Talk meandered on through Hermione’s muggle studies, through to how Gabrielle was doing at Beauxbatons and how Fleur’s father and grandmother were.  
  
Fleur caught sight of Hermione rubbing her hand along her scarred arm, a far away look in her eyes.  
  
“You’ll see them again, ma belle,” Fleur reassured, ignoring her mothers looks as she took Hermione’s hand.  
  
Hermione sighed heavily. “Maybe.”  
  
“Hey, Maman, do you know anything about the Lestrange’s?” Fleur asked suddenly.  
  
“The Lestrange’s? Such as ze woman who –” She gestured at Hermione.  
  
“More the French branch of the family. And the Gage’s,” Hermione asked, voice trepid.  
  
Apolline leaned back in thought. “The Lestrange family has been so called pure blooded for – I do not know how long. Many centuries. As have the Gage’s. It became a lot more fanatical in recent times, the rise of Grindelwald was a particularly strong time for those ideologies. There were rumours flying of illegitimacy and secret children and connections with other families or creatures, dark creatures. There was an obscurus in Paris. But the Lestrange line, though like many pure bloods highly intermarried, has multiple branches. To know the rumours and deeds of one is not to know it all.”  
  
“Do you know anything about Cyrille Lestrange? Or Jean Gage?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Specifically during the last British Wizarding War,” Fleur added.  
  
“Let’s think. I had you a few years before the end of the war. I was distracted then with your Grandmere, the differences of opinion we had on your upbringing. And you were mon petite ange. I focused on little else. But before, oui, maybe there is something. Mostly the different family branches keep to themselves, but there was something about the Lestrange’s taking up with their English family. It was a matter of pride for a while, for a few families, but zhen it all went quiet, something not to be spoken off. I thought it was because of the unpopular message they were spreading, eet was not all well received in France, however, now I think on it, the Lestrange’s were the first to go quiet, before I had you, Fleur.”  
  
“So they joined up with Voldemort,” Hermione said solemnly. “And something happened. Are they really the kind of people I want to get back.”  
  
Fleur reached out to rub circles on her back. “Zhey are your parents, ma belle.”  
  
“Who fought with him.”  
  
“And living as muggles for nearly two decades will have affected their views.”  
  
“You’re right. Thank you.” Hermione smiled at Fleur before leaning her head on her shoulder, forgetting for a moment that Apolline was watching.  
  
After that, she didn’t forget. Apolline was hovering all day when she wasn’t actively trying therapies. By the time she finally said her farewells, with the promise that Fleur would visit soon, it was well into the evening and Hermione was ready to drop.  
  
Just as Apolline was about to step into the Floo, she whispered something in Fleur’s ear which made her turn bright red.  
  
As soon as she was gone, Fleur turned to Hermione. “Sorry about ma mère. She can be, intense.”  
  
“She was nice.” Hermione came up to Fleur, arms encircling her waist and head buried on her chest. “A good healer. Very thorough.”  
  
“Oui. And she will ‘ave more to say later, no doubt. She always does. But for now, you are falling asleep where you stand. Come to bed.”  
  
“How very forward of you, mademoiselle Delacour,” Hermione said around a yawn.  
  
Fleur laughed. “Ma belle, when I proposition you, it will be more _enchanté_ than that.”  
  
“I shall hold you to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, in case it's not clear, unlike Ron's encounter with the horcrux, Hermione is the only one who can hear it, although everyone can see the spectres that manifest. Fleur assumed that Hermione was talking about Bellatrix because she was touching her scar.


	9. The Birthday Burrow

After a relaxing week spent enjoying the quiet of Shell Cottage and the surrounding countryside and trying to implement Apolline’s medical advice whilst flirting with Fleur in a not-quite joking manner, Hermione found her arrival at The Burrow for Harry’s birthday to be overwhelming. There were people everywhere. Despite insisting on only wanting something small, and the lingering emotions of the war, the house was filled with the friends they had gathered over the years who were determined to make this day a happy one. Even George had summoned enough spirit to put on a party hat and crack a few jokes. It certainly helped that there was a capacious amount of alcohol present.  
  
The party had spilled out into the surrounding fields as people from the order, from Dumbledore’s Army, students from Hogwarts, teachers from Hogwarts, people Hermione couldn’t even recognised, turned up, and not all had clearance for The Burrow’s wards.  
  
Hermione drew close to Fleur as she stepped out of the Floo behind her. Eyes around the room had already migrated to Hermione and she didn’t want the attention, didn’t want the questions, the pitying looks, the praise, none of it.  
  
“Shall we find ze birthday boy?” Fleur said, taking Hermione’s hand.  
  
Hermione squeezed Fleur’s hand back gratefully and allowed her to lead the pair out to the garden, a fair number of people parting before the veela with open mouths before managing to collect themselves. Fleur tutted and rolled her eyes at Hermione, who smothered a grin.  
  
“Hermione, dear! And Fleur.” Molly Weasley came bustling over to them, a tray of mini sausages floating in the air behind her. “So glad you could make it. How are you?”  
  
Mrs Weasley pulled Hermione into a tight hug and then began to fuss over her. “You’re looking pale. Are you sleeping well? Ron didn’t tell me what the healer said. I have some home brews and I’m sure Arthur can pull some strings…”  
  
Hermione zoned her out as she caught Fleur’s amused eyes over Mrs Weasley’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m good, Mrs– Molly,” Hermione interrupted, hurriedly correcting herself to the name Molly had insisted she use after the war. Hermione suspected it was part of her plan to marry her off to Ron, but perhaps she was judging the woman too harshly. She had been a second mother to her all those summer holidays at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, and now with her own parents gone…  
  
“Apolline is brewing some more complex potions and they should be ready when we visit France,” Hermione continued.  
  
“You’re going to France? Is Bill going with you to see his in-laws?”  
  
“Molly,” Fleur said in a lightly warning tone.  
  
“I know, I know. You just make such a good couple. You wouldn’t need to go all out to get married, we’d all respect your original big day.”  
  
“Molly, Bill and I were only marrying for convenience.”  
  
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.”  
  
“No, Mum, no one could ever accuse you of not trying to set up your children,” Ginny teased, appearing behind her mother, drink in hand.  
  
“Ginerva,” Molly reprimanded with no real bite.  
  
“The cheese and pineapple sticks have run out,” Ginny deflected, sending Molly hurrying off to the kitchen. “Hi Hermione, Fleur. You looked like you could do with a rescue.” Ginny grinned.  
  
“Thanks, Gin. Any idea where Harry is?”  
  
“Last I saw, he and Ron were out in the back field. Harry and Dean were trying to get a game of football going. It was pretty funny.”  
  
After thanking a giggling Ginny again, Hermione and Fleur set off through the crowded garden to find the birthday boy. As promised, the attempted game of football was a disastrous comedy. Hermione pulled on Fleur’s hand to keep them at the sidelines of the makeshift pitch to watch for a moment the wizards and witches frantically running about with no visibly coherent teams or positions.  
  
Finally, Harry caught sight of them and jogged over, smile in place as he wrapped Hermione in a firm hug.  
  
“I’m glad you could make it.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”  
  
“How are you feeling?” Harry asked bluntly.  
  
“Fleur’s been a good nurse.”  
  
Ron ran over in time to hear the tail end of her reply.  
  
“Mione, you look… George is moving back to his flat above the shop, and Percy and Charlie have to go back to work. So if you wanted to come back to The Burrow…”  
  
“’arry, ‘appy birthday,” Fleur said quickly, pulling a wrapped present from a clutch purse.  
  
“It’s not much,” Hermione said apologetically. “There hasn’t really been much shopping opportunity.”  
  
“I don’t care about gifts. Just that you’re here,” Harry said.  
  
“You’re just saying that because Fleur’s too stingy to get her own gift,” Ron muttered.  
  
Just as Hermione was about to retort, a deep cheerful voice sounded behind them and a hand clapped down on Hermione and Fleur’s shoulders.  
  
“Joint presents, huh?”  
  
Hermione turned to see Bill smiling down at her.  
  
“Before you know it, you’ll be sending out Christmas newsletters together. Hit me up when you want a joint bank account.”  
  
Hermione flushed at the thought of the account she’d already proclaimed Fleur should have access to, and flushed further when she felt Bills elbow nudging into Fleur’s side.  
  
Ron scoffed. “Only married people have joint accounts.”  
  
“Well, they’re already fucking.” Hermione whipped around to see Ginny had joined them, Luna in tow. She was red in the face and stumbling slightly as she gestured wildly with each word. “That’s what she said. ‘Well this Lestrange fucks half-breeds!’ Which is fucking weird thing to say, right?” Ginny turned to Hermione. “Why’d the fuck you say that?”  
  
“Ginerva, if your mother ‘eard that language–” Fleur tried to divert attention, but it was too late.  
  
“Lestrange?” Harry questioned, just as Ron blurted “You’re fucking Fleur?”  
  
“No!” Fleur vehemently denied at the same time as Hermione ashamedly admitted “Yes.”  
  
“What? You’re telling them?” Fleur grabbed onto Hermione’s hand to offer any support she could, ignoring Ron’s demands to clarify that they were fucking as he pointed accusingly at their hands.  
  
Hermione drew a deep breath, taking strength from Fleur’s steady gaze. “Fleur and I are not… It doesn’t matter. But yes, I am a Lestrange. I don’t know how. I was messing around with Sirius’ family tree spell when we were still trying to work out the plan in Grimmauld Place and it –”  
  
“That was over a year ago, Hermione!” Harry protested.  
  
“I know. I know. But I didn’t know for sure until Fleur and I went to Gringotts and they just let us into the Lestrange vault, my vault, and we just took the cup.”  
“We?” Bill prompted, eyebrow raised.  
  
“Don’t,” Fleur said, throwing a warning look to her almost husband. He mimed sealing his lips.  
  
“Wait, how did Bellatrix know?” Luna asked, seeming to not notice the shudder that passed through the group at the name.  
  
Hermione took a deep breath before answering. “I was trying to throw her off her game, during the… At Hogwarts. She already knew I was pureblooded. I’d broken under… at…” Hermione’s hand trembled and Fleur pulled her closer, arm wrapping around her waist to rub circles into her hip, a move that did not go unnoticed by Ron’s glare.  
  
“Pureblood?” Harry prompted.  
  
Hermione just nodded.  
  
Sensing Hermione’s distress at the memories, Fleur placed a kiss to her temple, a move she had taken to doing in the past week.  
  
“Not fucking,” Ron scoffed.  
  
Bill shoved his brother, lightly enough that it wasn’t harmful but still hard enough to not be considered friendly. “I told you to knock it off.”  
  
“Yeah, just cos you’re not marrying Fleur, don’t mean she needs to turn Hermione gay.”  
  
“Oi, dipshit!” Ginny called, swaying back and forth. “Who cares if Hermione’s schtupping the hottest chick in Europe? Get your head out ya pants. She just told us she’s a Lestrange!”  
  
The field seemed to freeze.  
  
Everyone turned to face Hermione.  
  
She couldn’t.  
  
She wouldn’t.  
  
She ran.  
  
Fleur’s hand fell from her grasp, and though she might have called after her, Hermione’s ears were ringing too loudly to tell.  
  
It was Harry who found her, in the bedroom she used to share with Ginny.  
  
“Hey, mind if I join you?”  
  
Hermione waved him in, and he awkwardly perched on the bed before throwing an arm over her shoulder. It didn’t sit like Fleur’s did, but it was comforting, reminding her of long, lonely days in the wilderness, just the two of them.  
  
“I can’t say who’s more of a prat,” Harry said.  
  
“That’s your girlfriend,” Hermione said around a light sob.  
  
Harry shrugged.  
  
They sat in silence for a little while, before Harry once again spoke. “So… You and Fleur seem close. I’m not trying to dig the goss or whatever phrase Lavender would have used.” He paused, remembering their fallen peer. “Just, I’d be happy for you.”  
  
“I think we’re engaged,” Hermione ventured, pressed up against Harry’s shoulder, noting how different it was than being pressed against Fleur.  
  
Harry jerked away a little to look down at Hermione, bug-eyed. “Engaged?”  
  
“I guess. I didn’t mean to. Magic, huh?”  
  
“Magic, huh.” Harry echoed with a small chuckle, two magical blooded people raised in the muggle world sharing something that was barely a joke.  
  
“She said we can break it off,” Hermione continued, “but…”  
  
Harry pulled Hermione to him again. “But you like her. And she likes you.”  
  
“I’m glad I’ve got you, Harry.”  
  
“I’m glad I’ve got you, Hermione. Granger, Lestrange, dare I say it, Malfoy.” He faked a shudder. “You’re Hermione. My best friend. I’m not sure there’s anyway you’re getting rid of me now.”  
  
They waited until Hermione’s tears dried before making their way downstairs. Fleur was waiting at the bottom of the staircase and exchanged nods with Harry as they descended. However, before Hermione could reach her, she was accosted by Professor McGonagall with Daedalus Diggle and Mundungus Fletcher, who looked like he would much rather be anywhere else.  
  
“Well?” McGonagall said, looking at the pair with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“You see, we heard, and mind we weren’t eavesdropping, all of thems heard, we heard that you, Miss Granger, was in fact, Miss Lestrange, and so old Diggles and I got reminiscing about old times.”  
  
“Oh yes, pretty much the only ones left of the old guard. Pleasure to be seeing you again, Miss Granger,” Daedalus Diggle doffed his hat as he spoke.  
  
“So, you see, Dumbledore, Albus like, he helped me out of a spot back in the day, and like, he knew the kind of people I had acquaintances with, so he used me as his eyes and ears. What he didn’t reckon on, was ‘ow many eyes and ears I had. But I never had the background to put to the info until I started chatting with Diggle here.”  
  
“Will you two get on with it?” McGonagall said.  
  
“Alright, alright, keep yer bun on. Anyways, Diggle here and I gots talking and Diggles here, he knew there’d been a secret agent inside Voldy’s camp that they’d been getting info from. And I knew that there’d been another lot of Lestranges, who then disappeared. I thought they went back off somewhere, or died or somethin’ but Diggles ‘ere says they memory charmed the agent when things looked bad and our timelines for that match up.”  
  
Hermione felt like she’d taken a punch to the stomach. She looked at McGonagall for confirmation.  
  
“I overheard them talking and thought you should know. I, myself, was never directly involved with the order. I was part of the ministry’s efforts, and kept Dumbledore appraised on that front, though I did get the impression that there was a loss of information to the order perhaps a year or so before you were born.”  
  
Hermione sank down to the step. Secret agents. Could that be true? Could she hope for that to be true? If it wasn’t, if the Lestrange’s weren’t the informants, reversing the original memory charm would be unleashing death eaters. If they were… She would be unlocking memories of people who had fought the same war she had, a war she wouldn’t wish on anyone, but at least they would understand, be on the same side. Did she dare to hope that?


	10. After Party

The party went late, but it was the fastest clean-up that Hermione had ever seen as many who were still sober enough insisted on helping and so split themselves between tidying and escorting people home.  
  
Hermione found herself on the landing outside Ginny’s room. It was well gone midnight and she and Fleur had promised to be at The Burrow the next day for the non-anniversary, so it had made sense to stay over. However, Hermione was not in the mood to share a room with the girl who had blurted out her secret to what seemed like half of wizarding Britain.  
  
Ron came up the stairs.  
  
“’Mione,” he yawned. “What you doin’?”  
  
“Where’s Fleur?”  
  
“Mum put her in with Bill.”  
  
Hermione felt a twinge of annoyance, but nevertheless started to make her way to the stairs.  
  
“Where are you going? You can’t, Hermione.” Ron stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Well I can’t be in there.” Hermione jerked her head back to Ginny’s door. “Not yet.”  
  
Ron nodded in understanding.  
  
“Come on then. You can crash with me and Harry. S’not like we weren’t living in basically one room for the whole year. I’m sure Mum won’t mind.”  
  
“I’m sure she won’t,” Hermione mumbled, before following Ron up the stairs.  
  
Harry cracked open an eye as they entered and grunted in recognition and promptly fell back asleep.  
  
Hermione wished she could fall asleep as easily. However, she couldn’t seem to shut her mind off, and the more she thought about trying to not disturb the boys, the louder her thoughts became and the more she needed to move.  
  
Eventually, she rolled off the pile of cushions Ron had thrown onto the floor for her – ever the gentleman – and crept out onto the landing.  
  
Every step she took down the stairs threatened to wake the entire household. Each step a trick. She had thought she could make it to the ground floor, find a chair to curl up in and pretend to sleep away the rest of the night. The stairs were too loud for that. She came to a stop to assess her situation. She came to a stop of the floor with Bill’s room.  
  
Hermione told herself not to. Told herself she was being irrational. Yet still she found herself slipping into Bill’s room. By instinct, she picked one of the beds. Logic told her she must have picked the one that seemed less settled in the room, that had been magically placed there, but reason also told her it was too dark to know and she had only her gut to guide her. And her gut guided her into Fleur’s arms.  
  
Fleur shifted in her sleep to accommodate her new bed companion, and her arms went around her waist.  
  
Hermione’s brain slowed, her body calmed. So what if everyone knew? So what if her parents were muggles or purebloods or death eaters or secret agents? Nothing mattered but being able to lie here, with the steady beat of Fleur’s heart against her ear.

The house woke late the next morning, and Hermione and Fleur were startled awake by the muffled swearing of Bill Weasley stubbing his toe.  
  
Fleur looked around in confusion, first at Bill, then down at the weight on her chest. Her expression softened when she saw Hermione looking sheepishly back at her.  
  
“Sorry,” Bill said, wincing. “That wasn’t how I wanted to start our noniversary, oh love of my life, the one that got away, wife that will never be.”  
  
“Idiot,” Fleur grumbled lovingly.  
  
“Hey, you can’t call me that, I’m your not-husband. How many other not-husbands would let you lie around in bed all morning with another woman? Ey?” Bill teased, sitting on the end of the bed and patting Fleur’s leg, accidentally catching Hermione’s at the same time. “Mornin’ Hermione. Pleasant surprise to see you here. I thought you were rooming with Ginny,” he said with a wink.  
  
Hermione buried herself deeper into the covers.  
  
“Bill,” Fleur reprimanded.  
  
“What? Can’t one fiancé tease another?”  
  
“Fleur! You told him!” Hermione accused, sitting up fully to glare at her.  
  
“Technically you did, ma belle.”  
  
Hermione’s confused glare clearly communicated a need for Fleur to elaborate.  
  
“You told the story of our visit to Gringotts.”  
  
“Fleur couldn’t have gone down to the vault without being family, especially after skipping out on the goblins. Fuming, they were. I tried to owl Pensure to get a withdrawal after we left and you don’t want to know what he sent back,” Bill said, nose wrinkled.  
  
Hermione smirked at the look on his face, remembering exactly why she had always liked Bill, before she’d found this weird jealousy curdling in her stomach.  
  
“So, Miss Granger,” Bill said with a lot of pomp, hand out for Hermione’s. “May I steal my fake wife away to celebrate our fake anniversary?”  
  
Hermione batted his hand aside, smiling. “Go,” she said dramatically. “Spend the day with your fake husband, fiancé. I’ll be waiting for you to whisk me on a romantic trip away to France after dinner where you can shower me with affection and promise me this miscreant means nothing to you.”  
  
Bill laughed.  
  
Hermione spent the morning dozing in the living room, and the afternoon pretending to watch the boys play quidditch. Ginny came up to her at one point to apologise for what she had been told she had done the previous night and she looked so shame-faced Hermione didn’t have the heart to bare a grudge. After all they had been through, how could anyone stay mad at anyone?  
  
It was after another crowded dinner around The Burrows table that Fleur found her, a flower in her hair.  
  
“Here,” Bill said as he entered the living room behind Fleur. “For the most accommodating young lady.” Bill swirled another flower into his hand and offered it to Hermione.  
  
“Oi! Why’s Bill giving you flowers?” Ron demanded from across the room.  
  
“Because, Ronald, Bill is a gentleman.”  
  
Ron huffed and threw himself into a chair, muttering something about being a gentleman. Hermione wondered whether he was labelling himself one or being derogatory about his brother. She found she didn’t care.  
  
“Well, love that I lost, have a safe trip,” Bill said, swooping Fleur up into his arms and kissing her on the cheek.  
  
Fleur laughed and returned the kiss.  
  
“You could go with them,” Molly said from the doorway.  
  
“Mum.”  
  
Molly waved her hands. “I was only saying.”  
  
Bill turned to Hermione with an eyeroll. “You’ll look after the missus, right? Keep her out of trouble.”  
  
“I’ve had my fill of doing that with those two.” Hermione jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Ron and Harry. “Don’t I get a break?”  
  
“You’ll get one, ma belle. I’ll look after you until you can’t stand it anymore.”  
  
“That’ll be never then.”  
  
Fleur looked hard at Hermione, hard enough that Hermione began to wonder if she was a legilimens and was searching her mind for something.  
  
“Come on chien amours, portkey’s about to leave,” Bill prompted, snapping them out of it enough to be aware of the weird looks they were receiving from around the room. Except for Harry’s smile and Ginny’s smirk.  
  
“Chien amours?” Fleur asked with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“You know my French is bad,” Bill defended, hands raised as he opened the door for them. “I don’t know the word for birds.”  
  
Fleur lightly smacked him as she passed, pretending to ignore the kiss he blew as she and Hermione left The Burrow for the designated international portkey. It was useful being friends with the interim minister for magic, it made setting up international travel from convenient locations easy, so the hub cap they needed to find was only a few meters outside The Burrows wards, and soon they were on French soil.


	11. France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French is in italics

“Fleur!” A silver-hair blur crashed into the pair as they landed in France.  
  
Fleur let go of Hermione’s hand to steady herself against her little sister.  
  
“ _When Maman said you were coming, I couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t let me visit you in May, and you weren’t coming here, and we were hearing all these stories and Fleur I missed you so so so much!_ ”  
  
“ _Gabby, you were in school. You couldn’t just leave to visit me._ ” Fleur tried to extricate herself from her sister’s grip, to no avail.  
  
“ _But I needed to know you were okay!_ ”  
  
“ _I sent letters. And as you can see, I am well._ ” Fleur pat Gabrielle’s back and looked over at an amused Hermione. “ _Are you not going to welcome our guest?_ ”  
  
“ _I am. You don’t live here anymore, you’re a guest._ ”  
  
Fleur poked Gabrielle in the side until she squealed and let go.  
  
“’ello, mademoiselle Granger,” Gabrielle said in a voice far more accented than Hermione had ever heard Fleur speak, even during her time at Hogwarts. She had pulled back slightly from her sister to address Hermione but was still pressed close to her and Hermione felt awkward trying to take Fleur’s hand again, so she was forced to walk to the Delacour house unaided.  
  
“Ah, Fleur, Hermione,” Apolline greeted them at the door to the at first glance modest side village house. Upon stepping over the entrance way, however, Hermione could immediately tell there had been a lot of magical alterations made. “I hope you had a good trip.”  
  
“Oui, Maman,” Fleur said, leaning over Gabrielle’s head to kiss her mother’s cheek.  
  
Apolline turned to Hermione with an analytical eye. “’ave the treatments been working?”  
  
“A little,” Hermione replied politely.  
  
Apolline frowned. “’opefully my next batch of potions will be better suited. But for now, it is Gabrielle’s bedtime, and although your bodies are an hour behind us, I am sure you are tired, Hermione. I ‘ave your room prepared.”  
  
“ _But Maman, I’m not tired,_ ” Gabrielle protested, clinging tighter to Fleur.  
  
“Gabrielle,” Apolline warned.  
  
“ _I will still be here tomorrow,_ ” Fleur promised.  
  
“ _You better be._ ” Gabrielle huffed and flounced off up the stairs.  
  
Fleur laughed lightly. “A year at Beauxbaton’s hasn’t changed her much.”  
  
“I doubt anything will,” Apolline said with an eyeroll, beginning to lead Fleur and Hermione upstairs. “’ere, your room, Hermione. The bathroom is at the end of the hall and Fleur’s is opposite, if you need anything I’m sure she still remembers where everything is. I’ll leave you to settle in. Good night. Fleur, a moment?”  
  
Hermione watched Apolline head back to the stairs and ascend to higher in the house, Fleur in tow.  
  
The room she had been placed in was a picture-perfect guest room. Tasteful, yet relatively bland art work hung on the walls, a bed with a non-descript though high-thread count set of covers, a view over the street at the front of the house, a dresser with empty draws and a mirror, a towel folded on the chair at the foot of the bed.  
  
Hermione set her beaded bag down on top of the towel. It seemed out of place.  
  
Having reorganised at least the need-to-access items of her bag, it didn’t take Hermione long to grab what she needed for the night, head to the bathroom, come back, and lie down in bed. The bed was comfortable. Really comfortable. But like the night before, despite how tired her limbs were from at least another three boughts of illness of varying severity that day and the fog that clouded her brain, sleep evaded her. She stared at the blankness above her, where the ceiling must be in the dark; she strained her hearing for the sounds of the house, the sounds of the village, and the sounds of the surrounding countryside. She recited Hogwarts: A History, she clenched each muscle in turn, she murmured a lullaby her mother used to sing – nothing.  
  
Cautiously, just like the night before, Hermione padded her way out into the corridor and slipped into the room Apolline had mentioned was Fleur’s.  
  
The light was still on and Fleur immediately turned to see who had opened the door. Upon seeing Hermione, she smiled, and drew the corner of her covers back.  
  
Hermione slipped in besides Fleur. “I’m sorry, I just…”  
  
“’ush,” Fleur said, pulling Hermione into her arms so her head rested on her shoulder. “I know.”  
  
“Did you have a good day with your not-husband, fiancé?” Hermione teased, settling into Fleur.  
  
“Oui. We had a picnic and went to a restaurant. Maybe I was too ‘asty not marrying ‘im. You’ve never taken me anywhere.”  
  
“Hey,” Hermione complained lightly, bringing her knee up to jostle Fleur only to leave it draped across her legs. “You never did tell me how the whole marriage of convenience thing came about.”  
  
Fleur brought a hand to Hermione’s hair, fingers deftly untangling knots as she settled in to tell the tale.  
  
“I first saw Bill when I came to ‘ogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. All ze Weasley’s were there to cheer on ‘arry and Charlie was there with ze dragons. He was flirting with one of the dragon handlers when I walked past. My thrall distracted ‘im, but ‘e shook it off.  
  
“After ‘arry returned from ze maze, I expressed my wish to ‘elp in any way I could. Cedric had been a good friend to me, and I ‘ad suffered at the hands of that death eater who imperioused Viktor. Dumbledore suggested I get a job in Gringotts, that they needed people there. That’s where I properly met Bill.  
  
“It soon became obvious that things were changing in the ministry, the hold they were exerting at ‘ogwarts, trying to restrict Dumbledore and placing limits on magical creatures. Bill and I decided it would be best if I were to marry, to obtain citizenship.  
  
“I had no interest in Bill, and Bill had no more than that passing moment of thrall in his attraction to me. He is seven years older than me, and he never wanted to be married. His job kept him away and was too dangerous, ‘e thought it would be unfair. Marrying ‘im would suit my needs and appease his mother. We told everyone we ‘ad been dating for a respectable period, and ‘ad plans to ‘ave our own liaisons outside of our marriage. When the ministry fell and we were called into ze safe ‘ouse straight away, there was little point finalising the marriage we were only going to dissolve when the war was over.”  
  
“And Bill was fine with marrying you?” Hermione asked, trying not to fall asleep as she relaxed into the hand running through her hair.  
  
“Oui. It was not unfair on me. I was not looking for a partner, even when we thought we would still be working, I did not need him present like a lover would. And I knew of his casual relationships and did not require him to end them. The war made it tough, and he was unable to see especially Raj, who worked with Charlie.”  
  
Hermione tilted her head up a little. “Raj?”  
  
“Bill told me I could tell you.”  
  
“So Bill’s gay.”  
  
“Non, he like’s women, and he likes men. Charlie knows, and he thinks Ginny has some inclination, she caught him flirting with Raj during the tournament, but the rest of his family do not.”  
  
Hermione took a moment to think about this, her fingers toying with the hem of Fleur’s top.  
  
“What about you? Who do you like?”  
  
Fleur looked down at Hermione until she met her eyes. Hermione blushed.  
  
“Sacre Bleu, I have a woman in my bed! How did that ‘appen? Per’aps the brightest witch of ‘er age can tell me?” Fleur teased with exagerated shock, going so far as to play into the english stereotypes of the french with her language.  
  
“Very funny, Fleur.”  
  
“I zought so. Now, unless you wish to delve into the real reason you are always in my bed, a conversation I am more than ‘appy to ‘ave when you are ready, then I suggest we go to sleep.”  
  
Fleur reached over for her wand and was half-way to casting the spell to put the lamp out when Hermione said “Fleur… It’s not… the worst being your fiancé.”  
  
“I feel the same, ‘ermione.” Fleur finished the spell. “Good night, ma belle.”  
  
Hermione felt the familiar press of lips to her temple and in return, kissed the closest skin to her – a patch just below Fleur’s collarbone. She felt the woman’s breathing hitch below her, before she was wrapped more firmly into Fleur and together their breathing evened out and they fell asleep.

“Fleur! Fleur!” A bundle of energy jumped onto the bed in the pitch darkness, quickly followed by a grunt and a startled yelp.  
  
The lights flicked on to reveal Gabrielle sprawled on top of an entangled Fleur and Hermione, Apolline standing in the doorway, wand at her side and head cocked.  
  
Hermione withdrew from Fleur as much as she could with Gabrielle lying on top of them.  
  
“I just came to fetch you for sunrise with your grandmere,” Apolline said.  
  
“Erm, yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” Fleur looked at her mother and sister expectantly; they didn’t move. “Erm, okay. Ma be- ‘ermione, I will be back before breakfast. Then we can go shopping for your wand, oui?”  
  
“Sure, I’ll be here.” Hermione saw the look on Apolline’s face. “Or in my room. Yeah. There’s a book in my bag,” she mumbled, though it carried throughout the room.  
  
Gabrielle was already in the process of dragging Fleur from bed and half-emptying her closet to find an outfit by the time Hermione was squeezing past Apolline, attempting to both not touch the other woman, nor look anywhere near her.  
  
It was a relief when the door to her designated room had closed behind her, shielding Hermione from Apolline’s gaze. Though, at the same time, she could once again feel just how alone she was in the room and although she was still tired, she knew she would not be getting back to sleep. As much as she was loathed to, Hermione found her bag in the pre-dawn darkness and rooted around until she found the wand in the bottom, which she used to cast Lumos. It was like forcing the magic out of the wand, nothing like when she had borrowed Fleur’s over the past week. Hermione wondered how she had ever managed to survive the battle with such an uncooperative wand.  
  
The sky was bright when Fleur returned. Hermione had heard someone moving about the house a little while beforehand, she guessed it must be Fleur’s father but had been too nervous to investigate. It was still early, but the veela women had been gone a number of hours and Hermione’s stomach was beginning to remind her of that fact when Fleur appeared in the doorway.  
  
“I’m sorry, ma belle. I should have thought that Grandmere would want to see me. I haven’t seen her since before my wedding.”  
  
“Family’s important,” Hermione excused, attempting to not let herself get distracted by her own problems as she said it. However, Fleur must be a legilimens as she opened her arms to her.  
  
“We’ll see how you feel after Gabby has pestered you about ‘arry. She has a long-standing crush on ‘im.”  
  
Hermione chuckled into Fleur’s neck to which Fleur responded with a contented sigh.  
  
“Maman will know mind healers.”  
  
“Thank you, Fleur,” Hermione whispered.  
  
Downstairs, just as Fleur promised, Hermione was treated to a barrage of questions about Harry before she even had a chance to meet Claude Delacour who was sitting not reading the paper, watching with amusement.  
  
“ _And it’s so not fair that you didn’t invite me to your sleepover!_ ” Gabrielle pouted, and all the adults in the room suddenly lost the ability to make eye contact.


	12. Wand shopping

Hermione hadn’t realised how much she had missed Diagon Alley, how much it had changed since she had first entered the wizarding world, until she set foot on Avenue Mystique. It was the bustling, sense-bombarding experience she had begun to chalk up to distorted memory. Every step was to dodge another person, every second a new smell or sound or sight. Hermione was overwhelmed with the chatter and shouts of so much overlapping French that she couldn’t decipher any of it, so she let her hearing pick up on the sounds of owls hooting and cats hissing, doors slamming with accompanying bells, advertisements letting off small explosions or little laughs. She could smell the potions, the sweet and the nose-curdling, could smell the street food and the cafes, could smell perfumes and colognes. There was so much.  
  
Fleur’s hand was tight in Hermione’s. Hermione was glad of it. As with Harry’s birthday, it was a lot, and she knew it was for Fleur too, who had been in isolation at Shell Cottage for the duration of the war. However, unlike at The Burrow, no one in France knew her, or at least few enough that Hermione was not noticing any looks. The lack of pressure, of weighted expectation with every person she passed, made her more relaxed than she ever could have been in Britain.  
  
Apolline, Claude and Gabrielle were up ahead, far enough that Hermione wondered if they would lose them in the crowd, though she expected that that was just her unfamiliarity with crowds talking. It surely wasn’t as busy as a Diagon Alley weekend before Hogwarts was due back. There were definitely school age children darting about, but for the most part they seemed engrossed in the sweet shop and the joke shop, and Gabrielle had yet to receive her supplies list – or so they had been informed over breakfast when they had asked why she wanted to come, with no apparently clear answer besides wanting to. For Apolline and Claude’s part, they wanted to visit the bank, and as she and Fleur would be needing to go to the bank to withdraw Bezants, the French wizarding currency, it made sense that they all travel together.  
  
The particular branch of Gringotts in Avenue Mystique looked humbler than that in Diagon Alley, its exterior fitting in with the traditional French architecture around it, however inside the sweeping arches and marble columns immediately reminded Hermione of the London branch. As she and Fleur made their way inside, they let their hands drop and quickened their pace to catch up with everyone.  
  
Apolline walked the party straight up to an open desk.  
  
“Ah, Madame Delacour,” the goblin greeted politely, pushing his glasses up his nose.  
  
“Good morning, I wish to make a withdrawal please, as does my daughter,” Apolline said, indicating Fleur with a brief nod of her head.  
  
The goblin surveyed the group. “Of course,” he said, looking between Fleur and Hermione. “Congratulations.”  
  
Apolline furrowed her brow.  
  
“And which of the…” The goblin looked into the air around Fleur, reminding Hermione of Luna and her wrackspurts, “three accounts that Mademoiselle Delacour has access to will she be withdrawing from?”  
  
“I have my key,” Fleur said, presenting it quickly to stem any questions.  
  
“Fleur, I can pay for my own wand,” Hermione protested in a mutter.  
  
“Have you set up international banking?” Fleur asked.  
  
Hermione shook her head.  
  
“Then we can sort this out another time. It is no burden to me.”  
  
“Actually, Mademoiselle Le-” the goblin started to say.  
  
“Can we go to the vaults now?” Fleur interrupted, trying to send messages with her eyes to the goblin.  
  
“Certainly. If you’ll follow my associate, Prundente, she will take you.”  
  
“So how does this international banking work?” Hermione asked as they waited in the cart for Apolline to enter her vault.  
  
“I’m not totally sure, the goblins pride themselves on how secure Gringotts is and part of that is their secrets, but from what I know part of it comes from good bookkeeping and other parts come from vaults not really being below the actual location they’re in. Think about London, below London is a network of tube stations and sewers and muggle things, ‘ow would all the vaults fit? I think it must be like the vanishing cabinets you ‘ave told me about. I don’t know ‘ow though. But eef you are signed up for international banking, you will find the currency of the location you enter through. When I enter in Britain, I find Galleons, in France, I find Bezants. Eef I want Galleons in France, I must pay the exchange fee, just like any other currency. There are lots of protections in Gringotts though, particularly on the older vaults, I would not be surprised if that was an oversimplification.”  
  
Once back on to the street, following another congratulations from Prundente, everyone made their way to the wand shop. Hermione wondered why everyone needed to accompany them, but she guessed that any time with Fleur was to be treasured, after all, she had been seeking it out herself.  
  
The bell rang as they entered the shop. Unlike Ollivander’s, there was music playing, and the room was light and airy, despite the rows of boxes that stacked shelves going back into the shop as far as Hermione could see. Humming from a balcony stopped as the door closed, and a man with glasses pinned to a headset leant over the railing.  
  
“ _Bonjour, welcome to Fairebois Wands. What can I help you with?_ ” The middle-aged man with bright curly hair peered down at Gabrielle. “ _A first wand? Or general wand up-keep? We have a great array of wand polish, for all kinds of woods and temperaments, and our repair services are exceedingly reasonable._ ”  
  
“What did he say?” Hermione whispered to Fleur, having only caught half of what was said and most of it appeared to be about baguettes.  
  
“Ah, an English. I wondered if I would get any,” the man said, switching languages and nimbly vaulting down the stairs. “A shame, what ‘appened. So many wands lost. You are ‘ere for a new wand, non?”  
  
“Yes. The one I have at the moment, it’s… evil.” Hermione shuddered.  
  
“Just because a wand is not bound to you, does not make it evil,” the man said, turning away to fetch a tape measure. “The wand choses the witch, not the other way around.”  
  
“No offence, Mr…” Hermione trailed off, doing her best to ignore the tape measure hovering around her.  
  
“Fairebois, the very one. Alexandre Fairebois.”  
  
“No offence, Mr Fairebois, but I have had a wandlore lesson from Mr Ollivander – I know about the passing of wands from one to another. I may not have fully won it at first, but I killed its last owner myself, and for good reason. The things that were done with this wand, we all know wands can be inclined for certain things, for defence or healing and so on, but what they learn from their partners is lesser studied but I do know, this wand learnt to be nothing but evil.”  
  
Mr Fairebois raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold statement to make, Mademoiselle…”  
  
“Granger,” Hermione said with vicious assuredness. “Hermione Granger.”  
  
Mr Fairebois sucked a breath in through his nose. The tape measure fell to the floor. “Mademoiselle Granger. When replacing a wand already owned, it is usual to ask the particulars of the wand presently used.”  
  
Hermione reached into her bag to retrieve the hated wand. She could feel the menace radiating off it. “I don’t know what it is.” She thought Ollivander had maybe told the boys, but she had been too ill to take any note.  
  
Mr Fairebois took the wand to examine it, and immediately began holding it as though it were a snake. “Walnut, 12 and three quarter inches, dragon heartstring, unyielding,” he diagnosed. “And forgive me, Mademoiselle, you are right, this is not a friendly wand. It is a miracle anyone has used it.”  
  
“You would not say that if you had met its owner.”  
  
“By rights, from what you have told me, you are its owner.”  
  
“I don’t want it. I forced it to work for me, but I’ve been using Fleur’s ever since…”  
  
Mr Fairebois turned to Fleur. “Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour. A custom wand. Nine and a half inches, rosewood, inflexible, and the defining touch, veela hair acquired yourself.”  
  
“Oui, monsieur.”  
  
“It works well for you? Need any tune ups?”  
  
“Non. It is perfect. And it ‘as been perfect to ‘ermione too.”  
  
Mr Fairebois hummed to himself. “Unusual. May I see?”  
  
Fleur handed Hermione her wand and she produced a flock of birds. The group standing in the shop watched as the circled around a while before Hermione vanished them again.  
  
“Very intriguing. May I?” He looked to both Hermione and Fleur for permission before taking the wand. He pulled his glasses down and examined the wand, peering carefully and twisting it to every angle before flicking it through the air. A small ribbon trailed after it, though Mr Fairebois did not seem pleased with the result.  
  
“Madame Delacour,” Mr Fairebois said, turning to Apolline. “I did not create nor sell you your wand, so I do not know, but maybe like your daughter you have a veela hair core?”  
  
Apolline nodded. “My mother gave a hair for both mine and my sisters wand, and for Fleur and Gabrielle’s.”  
  
“Would you consent for Mademoiselle Granger to demonstrate with your wand?”  
  
Wands were handed over again, and Hermione once more attempted to send a flock of birds drifting around the shop. Although she was successful, the magic did not come as easily, and the birds seemed to lack the refinement of the ones she had created with Fleur’s wand – still there was a marked improvement from the walnut wand she had been forced to use.  
  
Mr Fairebois hummed again. “Not an affinity for veela ‘air core then. What was your previous core? I assume you ‘ad another wand before, an Ollivander one, ‘e iz not known to use veela ‘air.”  
  
“Dragon heartstring. My first wand was dragon heartstring, vine wood, unbending, ten and three quarter inches.”  
  
“No matching characteristics at all,” Mr Fairebois muttered to himself. “Well, let’s see what we can do.” He bounced on the balls of his feet and started back into the shop.  
  
He returned with two boxes. “Here I have a vine wood dragon heartstring, and a vine wood veela hair. May as well start with ze basis presented.”  
  
Even before waving either wand, Hermione knew they wouldn’t work. They just felt dead in her hand. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but there was no energy, and although she could force a spell out, there was no connection.  
  
“I thought, not. Vine woods are very good at acknowledging their partner. Let’s try…” he flicked his own wand up in the air and three more boxes came soaring forward. “Walnut and dragon, cherry and dragon, sycamore and dragon,” he said, tapping the boxes in order again.  
  
As Hermione reached for the first wand, her leg gave way and she tumbled to the floor.  
  
Gabrielle screamed as Fleur darted forward to cradle Hermione and try to find one of the potions in her bag.  
  
“ _What is going on, Maman?_ ” Gabrielle asked tearfully, unable to look away as she clung onto Apolline’s robes.  
  
Apolline managed to squeeze herself out of Gabrielle’s grasp, passing her clinging arms onto Claude, so she could help.  
  
Fleur stroked Hermione’s tense jaw as her mother took the bag from her. “It’s alright, ma belle. You’ll have your potion soon.”  
  
Hermione reached a shaky hand up to the hand on her face. “It’s… passing.”  
  
She pushed herself up into a seated position with a little of Fleur’s help, and accepted the potion Apolline had located in her bag.  
  
“That was your shortest yet,” Fleur noted.  
  
“The potions are helping,” Hermione said with a small smile to Apolline.  
  
“Perhaps we should continue this another day?”  
  
“No. It’s over with now.”  
  
Again with Fleur’s help, Hermione stood. She caught sight of Gabrielle watching her with wide eyes.  
  
“I’m okay, Gabrielle,” she reassured, though her voice was still a little feint. “Your mum and sister have been taking really good care of me.”  
  
Gabrielle nodded against Claude’s chest, but didn’t let go of him and didn’t look away.  
  
Hermione turned back to Mr Fairebois, who was doing his best to appear uninterested by inspecting one of the wands on the counter.  
  
“Sorry for the interruption, Mr Fairebois.”  
  
“Non, no need. There is a chair should you need it.” He indicated to the side of the counter where there hadn’t been a chair when they entered. Hermione smiled gratefully, though didn’t take the seat. “Now, where were we, ah yes, cherry and dragon heartstring.” Mr Fairebois pulled the wand from one of two boxes on the counter.  
  
And so they went, Hermione forcing spells through wands that weren’t right, and sometimes outright causing explosions – she wished she could go back in time and tell Neville that all his problems were down to his wand.  
  
A while later Gabrielle claimed she was growing bored. She was still wide eyed and pale, and hovered near her father. Claude nodded to his wife before taking her to the sweet shop, leaving the rest to watch Hermione try what felt like every combination of wood and dragon heartstring and veela hair that existed, wheeling back around a few times to retry lengths and flexibilities, before branching out into a far wider array of cores than Ollivander set stock by.  
  
“Chestnut and unicorn hair, a good blend for justice, or Acacia and billywig shell, quick and easy, not a popular wood but powerful.” Mr Fairebois had taken to explaining his thought process aloud as he dredged through the shop, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if the limited cores at Ollivander’s were more of a detriment than a help, and if it should be standard practice to have your wand checked for suitability and maybe upgraded when you left school and perhaps every few years throughout your life, certainly when major changes occurred.  
  
“Ebony and phoenix tail.”  
  
Hermione flicked the wand without hope and a trail of sparks fell out of the end, dispassionately.  
  
“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere,” Mr Fairebois and raced back into the shop, humming once again.  
  
Claude and Gabrielle came back in.  
  
“ _Aren’t you done yet?_ ” Gabrielle whined, seemingly over her earlier scare.  
  
“ _I don’t see why you’re complaining, getting your wand custom made lasted a month,_ ” Fleur retorted.  
  
“’ere. Ebony and hippogriff talon, eleven inches, solid.”  
  
Mr Fairebois stood back expectantly, only to have his face fall a little when the same lacklustre sparks emitted from the wand.  
  
“Not to worry, not to worry. I like ze challenge. Hmmm. Oui. It was an experiment to see if they would work togezer but why not try?”  
  
He left again, but this time he went upstairs to his workshop. When he returned, he carried a black wand which didn’t have a box.  
  
“Ebony, ten and a half inches, reasonably supple, hippogriff talon and kneazle whisker dual core.”  
  
Hermione felt the air around her shift and knew that Mr Fairebois was watching carefully as he presented the wand to her. The moment her fingers wrapped around the handle, warmth spread along her hand, up her arm, the feeling of coming home, of falling into bed with Fleur and waking up to her, settled in her chest. The wand vibrated lightly in her hand, and out of it, like a patronous but glowing orange not silver, the form of a feral looking cat, a cat that reminded her of her beloved Crookshanks, now living in Australia with her unknowing parents.  
  
The room all stared at the strange spectral creature as it looked up at Hermione and butted its head into her leg, leaving no impression but that of a warm breeze, before dissipating into the air.  
  
Mr Fairebois scratched the back of his head. “’aven’t seen that before.”  
  
“It’s not happened to anyone else?”  
  
“I haven’t used a kneazel whisker before. I was out collecting wand woods, and this kneazel came up to me and basically offered me the whisker. Just one. They’re odd creatures. But I’ve not ‘eard of any other wands behaving that way, even kneazel cores.”  
  
Hermione smiled to herself as she thought of Crookshanks. There was no way of knowing it, and he wasn’t a full kneazel himself, but she wondered if he hadn’t had some doing in this, if he hadn’t somehow known – he always seemed to.  
  
“Well, thank you for all your help, Mr Fairebois. I shall certainly be recommending you to any of my friends who are finding themselves in need of a wand.”  
  
Mr Fairebois bowed his head in response, his glasses falling down with the motion.  
  
“’ow much do I owe you?” Fleur asked, taking out her purse ready to pay.  
  
Mr Fairebois blinked between Hermione and Fleur for a moment before answering. “Eight Bezants. And if you require your old wand disposed of, I would be willing to do so free of charge.”  
  
Hermione shook her head and took it back from where he had left the walnut wand on the counter. “I think it’s better if the British ministry decide what to do with it.”  
  
“Of course, Mademoiselle,” Mr Fairebois said, taking the money from Fleur. “One final thing, unless there is anything else I can be of assistance with, there would not happen to be a magical connection between yourself and Mademoiselle Delacour? It is the only explanation I can think of for your ease with ‘er wand, and I am desperate to solve ze conundrum.”  
  
“Would an engagement count?” Hermione asked more of Fleur than Mr Fairebois.  
  
“Ah, oui, oui. And with a veela with a family ‘air in ‘er wand. Oui. It would ‘ave driven me mad not knowing. Merci. And congratulations.”  
  
“Thank you,” Hermione said, sliding her wand into her wand holster. However, as she turned to leave the shop, she was confronted by Apolline, Claude and Gabrielle, and she was suddenly reminded that they had been there the whole time. Hermione closed her eyes and wondered if perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing. Fleur’s quick, high-pitched insistence that she needed to visit the apothecary and the hand that grabbed and dragged her out of the shop suggested otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all went nuts over Gabby and so even though there isn't much of her this chapter, I added some in to appease her many fans - hopefully.  
> This one's a bit longer as I spent forever researching random things and then couldn't find a place to cut. Feel free to debate me on the wand choice but the reasoning is Ebony is happiest with those with the courage to be themselves and happy with the outsider label. Will fight for herself and not easily swayed from beliefs Hippogriff talon is like dragon heartstring but mixes better with others, is a strong pwerful core and again works with confident people. Kneazel - okay so I liked the idea of Crookshanks (maybe crookshanks kneazel parent being the donor) good for transfiguration and conjuration, and as a second core would just balance out what hippogriff lacks as a more destructive core and ebony is transfiguration and combat. As for flexibilty, I got to make that up in the first place, going from a very rule abiding person to slightly less so now, and so cut a quarter of an inch off just to make up for the aim of having a slightly more flexible wand.  
> But yeah, open to other interpretations of what wand she should have.  
> Also I had help with Avenue Mystique and correcting past french from chicago51, thank you, if anyone else spots fatal errors - drop a note (and I do mean fatal, I know my apostrophe game is weak)  
> Thanks all X


	13. Inquisition

Hermione had somehow hoped that Apolline would forget what she had heard at Fairebois Wands – it was always going to be a futile hope.  
  
When dinner was called that evening, it was like facing the inquisition. It was worse than Molly Weasley on the war path. The solid, unblinking look. It was impossible to read what was going on in Apolline’s mind.  
  
Claude was no help, he had decided to burry himself in the paper once more, the evening edition of one of the French papers, and Fleur was unreachable to provide her usual comfort because Gabrielle had been sat between them.  
  
“Iz there something you wish to appraise me of, daughter?”  
  
“Non, Maman.”  
  
“Really? Because between being congratulated, talk of extra bank access, and what I could swear was mention of an engagement, a mother might start to wonder.”  
  
“Maman!’ Fleur complained. “I don’t want to discuss this around Gabby,” she relented.  
  
“I’m not a baby,” Gabby protested in wobblily English.  
  
Apolline tilted her head, eyebrows raised, in a way that Hermione thought would look suggestively scandalised on her own mother but looked far more accepting if still in need of answers on Fleur’s mother.  
  
“Non, non.” Fleur rubbed at the face and Hermione wished she was sitting next to her, she almost made a move to get out of her seat to stand behind her, but she didn’t know how that would be received.  
  
“Fleur, we all know your leanings, even if you hid them with that boy. And veela are not shy when it comes to pleasures of the flesh–”  
  
Fleur groaned again. “Maman, non. It was ze war. Things happened in ze war.”  
  
“Precisely. But there is no need to get married over it.”  
  
“Maman.”  
  
Hermione found herself in a similar position to Fleur, eyes peeking out through her hands.  
  
“Mrs Delacour, there wasn’t… it wasn’t… I accidentally said something to a goblin when we brokeintogringotts,” Hermione finished in a hurried whisper, as though that could cover up the crime.  
  
“When you…” Apolline looked at Hermione’s red face. “ _Gabrielle, go eat in the kitchen._ ”  
  
“ _But Maman!_ ”  
  
“ _Go!_ ”  
  
Gabrielle sulked off out of the room, leaving Apolline pinching the bridge of her nose, and Claude once more not reading his newspaper.  
  
“What, precisely, was the contract you made with this goblin?”  
  
“’ermione declared that I was ‘er fiancé in order to gain access to the Lestrange vaults. Cartswift was still a little sore about me skipping my notice period so I was only allowed to the vaults entrance, but I should have been granted access and was being granted access by the goblins here in the French branch.”  
  
“That doesn’t seem very concrete.”  
  
“Does there need to be much more? I declared her as my fiancé, there’s not much else to it,” Hermione said.  
  
“I suppose not. Engagements are less binding than weddings or betrothals of children. But why did declaring my daughter your fiancé allow her access to the Lestrange vault?”  
  
Hermione gulped, the words still as hard to say as the first time. “Because – Because I’m a Lestrange.”  
  
Claude looked up, ruffling his paper shut as he did. “I went to school with a Lestrange. Floxel. If I recall, there was another higher in the school when we started, some relative or other. Seem to remember he was good at arithmancy. Married Jodelle Volant from the quidditch team, I almost asked her out once.”  
  
“Do you remember anything about the relative?”  
  
“Didn’t pay much attention. They had a weird way of thinking, the blood pureists. Not as extreme as it got, but I couldn’t see myself marrying my own cousin. I think the older one was a Corvus – there’s lots of Corvus’ in the family. Lots of Fulcran’s too. I think the latest Fulcran was the cousin marryer. Maybe it was the sister who was there. I don’t think it was a Cyrille though, there were a whole bunch of those too, but I think Floxel’s Cyrille was younger than him.”  
  
“Floxel’s Cyrille?”  
  
“You were asking about Cyrille Lestrange last week,” Apolline remembered. “Is this why? Is he your real father?”  
  
“He’s my only father. Over the course of the war, I discovered that my parents, my muggle parents, had had their minds altered, well before I got to them…” Hermione felt the guilt rise in her stomach.  
  
“Maman, do you know any mind ‘ealers? We could get ‘ermione’s parents back.”  
  
“Would you really want that? Lestranges as parents? Even if they aren’t death eaters, they’re still blood purists,” Claude said, putting his paper aside properly and leaning forward on the table to meet Hermione’s eyes.  
  
Hermione looked down at the table, at the food she had yet to have a chance to touch. She thought of the kneazel that had appeared in Fairebois Wands, of her own cat now in Australia, she thought of Lockhart stuck in St Mungo’s, damaged by a badly cast obliviate, she thought of Molly Weasley, who tried to be a surrogate mother but just wasn’t her mother, how her mother didn’t know Fleur, wouldn’t know about the absolute stupidity of her being engaged… She looked up.  
  
“I have to. I hurt them, even if they don’t know it. And we don’t know the effects of the layered memory charms. For better or worse, they are my parents, I can’t just pack them off to the other side of the world and forget about them. I need to know the truth. And I’d quite like my cat back,” Hermione said with a strained smile, trying to relieve the serious atmosphere.  
  
“Well, zen, I will have to get in contact with some people. I cannot let my soon to be daughter-in-law down,” Apolline said.  
  
“Let’s not get hasty with the whole ‘daughter-in-law’ thing,” Hermione said.  
  
Fleur caught her eye, and Hermione could see the sceptical looks of Apolline and Claude in her peripheries. “Well, maybe just the ‘soon to be’ bit. I’m just going to message Kingsley.”  
  
Hermione excused herself from the table.  
  
Fleur was quick to find her in her room, writing a note to the minister.  
  
“I am glad you did not dump me, as they say, in front of my parents.”  
  
“Fleur, I’m not – I wouldn’t. I already told you how I feel about marriage.”  
  
“You don’t want to get married to anyone now,” Fleur recited, coming up to Hermione and resting her head on her’s as she looked over the note she was writing at her desk. “Least of all Ron.”  
  
“Shove off,” Hermione responded, without feeling, sinking back into Fleur. “I still feel that. But… there’s you.”  
  
Fleur slipped around to sit on the desk next to Hermione. “There’s a lot between friends and married, ma belle.”  
  
“Like an engagement,” Hermione said wryly.  
  
“We can break it off, start on a fresh slate.”  
  
“I don’t want a fresh slate, Fleur. I like where we are.”  
  
“Then where does that leave us? Sharing a bed for all time?”  
  
“It leaves us here.” Hermione pushed herself up by the arms of her chair and leant in to kiss Fleur.  
  
It was chaste and sweet, barely more than a brushing of lips, yet it felt as warm as when she had first touched her wand.  
  
“Take me on a date,” Hermione murmured, barely pulling back, forehead resting against Fleur’s.  
  
“You take me on one,” Fleur challenged, a twinkle in her eye.  
  
Hermione’s laugh was cut off by Fleur’s lips, pressing more firmly than before.  
  
“When you’ve finished your letter, ma belle, come to my bedroom, and we can eat and talk about all the ways we’re going to have a long engagement while telling absolutely no one and imagine the looks on their faces when they find out in ten years time.”  
  
Hermione gave Fleur one last kiss before sinking back down into her chair. “All apart from your parents, sister, Bill, Alexandre Fairebois, every goblin we meet and Harry. Am I missing anyone?”  
  
“’arry knows?”  
  
“I told him. And as your parents know, it’s only fair mine should too.”  
  
“My my, that seems like a lot of people to keep the secret.”  
  
“Well, really, weigh it up, do you want to be pestered about living with your girlfriend, or do you want to be pestered about when we’re getting hitched?”  
  
“Girlfriend, huh?”  
  
“You wanted Molly off your back about Bill,” Hermione said with a wink.  
  
“Oui, zat is why we are engaged.” Fleur spun off the desk to land in Hermione’s lap. “Another engagement of convenience.”  
  
“Too right, love. I mean look at the state of you,” Hermione replied with a grin, grabbing Fleur closer to her.  
  
Fleur let out a mock offended gasp. “I’ll have you know I could seduce you in a heartbeat.”  
  
“Is this that proposition you promised?”  
  
“Non.” Fleur ran a light finger along Hermione’s collarbone, then met her finger with a kiss. “No propositions without dinner.”  
  
“Tease.” Hermione shook her head.  
  
“I have to do something to fill these ten long years before marriage,” Fleur said dramatically, hand to her forehead, laid out across Hermione’s lap.  
  
“You’re an ass, you know that right?” Hermione kissed the smirk on Fleur’s lips. “Besides, I never said ten years. I just said not yet. I’m eighteen. I don’t know what I’m doing now. I spent the last seven years trying not to die. I never finished school, and I don’t know what my muggle school results were. Maybe I want to go to university, or finish Hogwarts, or find out about wizarding further education. Hogwarts wasn’t the best at preparing you for what comes next. To be fair we had a toad monitoring all our careers meetings and half of us thought Voldemort was going to murder us before we had a chance to do anything, but still. I spent the whole meeting arguing with the toad that I could go into the ministry to reform house elf rights. I didn’t know anything about it then. And I don’t know if I could stomach working for the ministry anymore. I don’t know anything. That’s why marriage now is such a stupid idea, but in ten years time, I should hope I’d maybe have at least some of that figured out. I just need time to have done more than not be killed.”  
  
Fleur had moved to fully sitting in Hermione’s lap during this speech, arms around her neck, focus intent.  
  
“And I will be there for you, whatever path you choose, wherever you go, I will be waiting for you every night and for whenever you call.”  
  
“Thank you,” Hermione breathed against her lips.  
  
“Join me when you are done.” Fleur slipped from Hermione’s lap, a final kiss pressed to her lips, and slipped out of the door, leaving Hermione to finish her letter to Kingsley.


	14. Reversal

The French Ministry of Magic was as impressive as the British, though in a completely different way – both before and after it’s fall. The French seemed to pride themselves on the Ministry being light and airy, with tones of blue and gold throughout and designs that reminded Hermione of what her parent’s lunchtime TV shows would call ‘art deco movement’.  
  
After registering her wand at the front desk, Hermione followed Apolline to the open sided lifts. Fleur stayed close to her side walking with poise and confidence under the gazes of all the ministry employees as they were first drawn to the two veela before noticing one of the heroes of the British wizarding war.  
  
Apolline took them down to a waiting room, lined with minimally padded chairs, and occupied by a witch wearing white robes.  
  
“ _Bonjour, Madame Delacour. It is good to see you again._ ”  
  
“ _Bonjour, Madame Touraine. Thank you for responding so quickly._ ”  
  
“ _Your letter intrigued me. I have been told that the patients are inside and currently sedated._ ”  
  
“They’re here?” Hermione said on barely more than a breath.  
  
“Forgive me, I will use English,” Madame Touraine said. “They arrived shortly before you and won’t wake until the counter-charm is cast. First, I would like to go over the particulars of the procedure, and of what I will need from you, Mademoiselle Granger.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Madame Touraine pulled out a quill and a pad of paper and gestured for everyone to take a seat.  
  
“Now, did you use the memory modification charm, or the forgetfulness charm?”  
  
“The memory modification charm. I remade all their memories from the time just before I was born. Made them think they never wanted children, but they wanted a cat, and then edited myself out of their minds.”  
  
“All eighteen years’ worth of memories?” Madame Touraine noted, sounding a little impressed.  
  
“Yes. I gave them knew identities and told them they wanted nothing more than to emigrate to Australia and believed themselves to be Wendell and Monica Wilkins.”  
  
The quill scratched fast along the paper.  
  
“But there’s another memory charm?”  
  
“Yes. I found out that instead of being Cyril and Jean Granger, muggle dentists, they were actually Cyrille and Jean Lestrange, my mother being a Gage before marriage. We’re still not fully clear on the circumstances surrounding the first memory charm, but believe it was cast during the first wizarding war, before my birth.”  
  
“A long time.” Madame Touraine finished her notes. “We shall proceed cautiously, and you shall do exactly as I say. I think it would be best if Madame and Mademoiselle Delacour wait here.”  
  
Hermione looked to Fleur, who gave her one last reassuring smile, before she entered the room.  
  
Her parents were sat on the same barely padded chairs as outside. No, not her parents. Monica and Wendell Wilkins. She wondered if there was some form of spell keeping them sitting perfectly upright in the chairs in the centre of the room.  
  
There were four other sorcerers in the room, also wearing white robes, and at Madame Touraine’s nod, two of them lifted their wands and released the Wilkins from their sedation.  
  
Monica and Wendell blinked around the room in confusion.  
  
“Good day, I am Madam Touraine. You are at a government medical facility following exposure to a toxic substance.”  
  
“Toxic substance?” Hermione’s father - no, Wendell – asked, demanded.  
  
“Please remain calm. My team will have ze problem fixed shortly.”  
  
“Problem? I feel fine. Don’t you feel fine?” Wendell said, turning to Monica.  
  
“I think so,” Monica said, patting herself down. “But you do hear about these slow-moving toxins, one second you’re fine, the next second.” She snapped her fingers.  
  
Wendell paled. “Right then. Well… better get on… Where’s your equipment?”  
  
“I just need you to focus on my colleague, ‘ermione, ‘ere for a second.”  
  
“Oh my goodness, it’s needles isn’t? Giant, massive, needles?”  
  
“Non. We just need you to focus on ‘ermione to test a few things.”  
  
Hermione stood, feeling both exposed and invisible. She wondered if this would be what wearing the invisibility cloak naked would feel like, because as she stood there, the centre of focus, she was also a complete stranger. There was not a flicker of recognition in their eyes.  
  
Madame Touraine scribbled more down on her pad before coming over to Hermione. “Excellent,” she said loudly to Monica and Wendell before lowering her voice. “A well-done job makes this easier.” She then showed the notes she had made to Hermione.  
  
Hermione followed the instructions presented in the notes. She went around behind her parents as Madam Touraine moved onto pointless tests, making Monica and Wendell touch their noses and finding their knee reflexes and the like.  
  
She took a deep breath to steady herself before nodding to the healer next to her. Together, they raised their wands and combined their magic and expertise – Hermione’s knowledge of her parents, and the healers knowledge of the mind, to undo the most recent memory charm on her parents.  
  
It was a tiring process. Hermione could almost feel the magic wiggling through her brain, reaching into all her memories, delving, exploring, rediscovering. She was so focused, she barely felt her arms and back stiffening, the magic clawing at her brain keeping the usual fog at bay.  
  
Finally, the magic ebbed. Hermione fell down, surprised when she landed in a chair. She looked around, to nod her thanks to whoever had thought to put it there, but the healers were all focused on her parents. Her parents. Hermione willed energy back into her muscles and stumbled to her feet.  
  
They were still sat in the chairs, and they were staring forwards, eyes vacant, mouths open.  
  
“Mum? Dad?” Hermione whispered. “Mum! Dad!” She threw herself towards them but was held back by several pairs of hands. “What’s happened? What went wrong?” Hermione demanded, tears at the corner of her eyes.  
  
Madame Touraine put a hand on Hermione’s arm. “Nothing. Look.”  
  
Hermione looked at her parents once more. They were looking back at her, eyes struggling in and out of focus, but definitely looking at her.  
  
“You should rest. We ‘ave a long way to go with ze next stage of ze removal.”  
  
Hermione nodded and wearily, barely able to take her eyes off her parents, turned to the door, to find Apolline and Fleur and settle in for a long wait.

Hermione ended up dosing, leant against Fleur, and was startled awake when Madame Touraine bustled into the room.  
  
“’ow did it go?” Fleur asked as Hermione struggled to orientate herself.  
  
“They are – it might be best if Mademoiselle Granger came in.”  
  
Hermione clasped her hands together, knuckles white. “Fleur…?” She turned expectantly, though she didn’t even know what she was asking.  
  
“I’ll be right behind you,” Fleur promised, standing with Hermione. Gently, Fleur reached out and tugged down the sleeve of her blouse, fully covering the slur carved into her arm.  
  
Hermione tried to smile in thanks, but her facial muscles didn’t comply. Instead she straightened her spine, took a steadying breath, and followed Madame Touraine into the room.  
  
“Hermione!”  
  
The sound of her mother’s voice almost had Hermione crying.  
  
“You–you remember,” Hermione said, looking at her mum and dad, who looked back at her with recognition.  
  
“Remember what, darling? Where are we? They won’t tell us,” her dad said.  
  
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I missed you so much,” Hermione said, crashing forward to the floor between their chairs, trying to hug them both at the same time.  
  
“Oh, Hermione,” her mother said with the hint of a laugh in her voice. “You’re never usually this sentimental when you come back from Hogwarts.”  
  
“I didn’t… There was a war.”  
  
The hands that had reached out to comfort her, loosened.  
  
“You’ll regret this. Don’t you know who we are? It was foolish to mess with the House of Lestrange.”  
  
Hermione pulled back to look at the snarling face of her father, her own face confused and hurt.  
  
“There is some temporal confusion,” Madame Touraine explained.  
  
“It will clear up?” Fleur asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Madame Touraine said. “Zey ‘ave three sets of memories and each seems as though it was yesterday. It was a complex removal, and zis may be the best it gets.”  
  
“Then we have to find out if they were members of the Order of the Phoenix.”  
  
Jean and Cyril’s heads snapped towards Fleur.  
  
“Well, the name means something to you,” Fleur noted.  
  
“How do you know about the order?” Jean demanded.  
  
“We’re members,” Hermione said. “And you… You were too, right?” Hermione held her breath as she waited for the answer.  
  
Her parents looked at one another, a silent conversation passing above her head.  
  
“Prove it,” Cyril challenged.  
  
Hermione reached out again, trying not to feel the sting as her dad tried to dodge her hand before it landed on his knee.  
  
“Dad, the war’s over. Voldemort’s gone, for real this time.”  
  
Her parents flinched at the name, then fell into similar poses of rubbing their temples.  
  
“Hermione,” her mother repeated again. “Why are you here? The war – what did you say about the war?”  
  
“It’s over. The wizarding war, it’s done. It’s why I wiped your memories. I’m so sorry. I had to protect you, he would have gone after you, and I couldn’t think of what else to do, so I sent you away.”  
  
“Don’t be silly Hermione, we haven’t been anywhere,” her dad interrupted.  
  
“Yes you have. You’ve been to Australia.”  
  
Her parents eyes went a little vacant again. “Did Crookshanks chase that spider out of the dunny?”  
  
“I thought he was with Hermione at Hogwarts?”  
  
The two stared at each other, then down at Hermione.  
  
“See? What happened to you yesterday?”  
  
“Barbeque,” her dad said confidently, just as her mother said “clinic then shopping.” They both then frowned and corrected themselves, “saw Albus.”  
  
“Exactly. But that all happened years apart.”  
  
Her parents sat in silence for a moment.  
  
“I think you have a lot to catch us up on.”


	15. Timelines Collide

It had taken some convincing, and a thorough checking over by Madame Touraine and her team of healers, but eventually Jean and Cyril were released into the care of Apolline. She was to watch over them for a week, and if she suspected that anything, anything at all, was amiss, she was to contact Madame Touraine at once.  
  
Hermione was beginning to suspect that might have been the easy part.  
  
From the ministry, they had floo’d to the Delacour house.  
  
“This isn’t the Manor,” Cyril said imperiously as he stepped into the cosy living room.  
  
“No, Dad. This is Fleur and Apolline Delacour’s house,” she reminded.  
  
He blinked a moment, as though filing the information away. “Ah, yes. And that fire thing was a magic thing?”  
  
“Yes, Dad.”  
  
These contradictions kept coming, where no one quite knew who they were talking to, though as time progressed from the removal of the spells, they appeared to be beginning to form new memories in this timeline – which although confused at least started to stitch up the previous memories to an extent and meant that they more consistently knew that Hermione was their daughter.  
  
“Hermione, we have a surprise for you,” her mother called when their luggage arrived from the ministry.  
  
Before Hermione had a chance to question anything, a feral hiss echoed around the hallway and an orange streak rocketed up the staircase. It was almost out of sight, when it paused. Crookshanks peered back over his shoulder, tail slowly flicking.  
  
“Crookshanks!” Hermione cried in delight.  
  
Crookshanks tilted his head, watching Hermione as she hurried towards him, before relenting enough to turn and take a few regal steps to meet her.  
  
Hermione scooped him up in her arms, cuddling him to her, and feeling his fur against her cheek.  
  
It said a lot that Crookshanks didn’t attack, in fact he barely squirmed, and the little movement he did make could be construed, if one was being kind, as a small rub of his head against hers, and maybe a rumble in his chest that might have been a little purr – but only if one was being generous.  
  
“Thank you for looking after them,” Hermione whispered.  
  
When Hermione had started walking Crookshanks upstairs to settle him in, it became apparent that there were other things and people that would require more convincing that day. Namely, Apolline, when it became clear that it was only logical to set her parents up in the room originally designated for Hermione. That, also logically, would leave Hermione sharing with Fleur, like she would have been, and had been doing anyway.  
  
“ _I’m not going to ugh with you and Papa and Hermione’s parents and Gabby in the house._ ” Fleur groaned.  
  
“ _Ah, Gabrielle. Hermione can stay in her room, and she can stay with you,_ ” Apolline said, as though she had fixed all the problems in the world.  
  
“ _I get a sleepover with Fleur?_ ” Gabrielle bounced up and down excitedly.  
  
“ _I guess all three of us will be having a sleepover then,_ ” Fleur countered.  
  
“ _Fine. All Three of you can have a sleepover._”  
  
As Hermione and Fleur waited for Gabrielle to use the bathroom as they got ready for their ‘sleepover’, Fleur leant into Hermione’ side and said “don’t worry, the novelty will wear off soon and she’ll go back to her own room.”  
  
Five mornings later, Gabrielle was still starfished over two-thirds of the bed, kicking the other two in the shins having already kept them up late into the night with gossip they couldn’t make heads or tails of, terrorising the recently returned Crookshanks with her insistence on petting him.  
  
Hermione and Fleur dragged themselves down to breakfast, to find Hermione’s parents already at the table in a friendly conversation with Claude.  
  
“Oui, yes, he couldn’t turn it back for a month!” Claude laughed.  
  
“Of course, Balbine knew the counter-spell, but she wouldn’t tell him.”  
  
Hermione and Fleur sat down at the table, somewhat cautiously grabbing toast and jam as they tried to work out what was going on.  
  
“Morning, Hermione,” her mother greeted passing her the teapot. “We just found out Claude went to school with your father’s brother. What a small world we live in.”  
  
“I was saying we should pop in on Floxel, have a little reunion,” Claude said.  
  
“Is that wise? He’s a …” Hermione cut herself off, glancing at her parents as her hand subconsciously migrated to her arm. So far, she had done a good job hiding most of the horrors of war from her parents. Not that she didn’t believe they had seen their own share, knowing as she did now that they had been secret agents for the Order of the Phoenix, but telling them what their daughter had been through seemed too personal and harsh at this stage, what if it affected what recovery they might still be able to make? Fleur and her family had been helpful in this regard, they seemed to agree not to talk in detail about the war, and to help hide Hermione’s episodes from her parents.  
  
“I looked him up, he works in the ministry now. Department of International co-operation sports division, which helps his wife out as she works with the French quidditch team.”  
  
“Air football,” Jean interrupted proudly.  
  
“Yes, Mum.”  
  
“A letter came for you, from Viktor, just before we were going to pick you up from the station. It’s on the kitchen counter,” she added.  
  
Hermione hadn’t known that, but then she had been busy wiping her parents minds to check the mail. “I saw him at the wedding.”  
  
“It such a pity he doesn’t go to Hogwarts with you. Perhaps you could invite him over this summer?” Hermione’s mum said in that hinting mum kind of way.  
  
Hermione glanced at Fleur out of the corner of her eyes. They had been waiting for the week’s observation to pass before springing their relationship and engagement on her parents, but if her mother was going to try and set her up with Viktor or one of the boys…  
  
“So, Floxel?” Fleur prompted into the slowly stretching silence, that surely wasn’t as long as it seemed to the couple.  
  
“It’d be good to see him. I haven’t seen him or Jodelle in over a year,” Cyril said, staring over the steam of his coffee.  
  
“Well over a year, Dad,” Hermione reminded him.  
  
He let out a dismissive breath.  
  
Hermione turned to Apolline, who had just come in from collecting the actual post. “Do you think it’s a good idea? Medically speaking?”  
  
Apolline thought for a moment. “It might be good to revisit old memories and show what ‘as changed. It may build into the current memories and ‘elp solidify your grasp of time.”  
  
Hermione pondered this for a moment before slowly nodding. “Alright. We’ll go.”  
  
“Are you sure you want to go, ‘ermione?” Fleur asked, reaching for her knee beneath the table.  
  
“If they go, I go.”  
  
“And I go with you.”


	16. The Lestranges

That was how Hermione found herself standing at the gates of an impressive mansion, Fleur at her side, Claude in front of her, and her parents behind.  
  
“What are we waiting for?” Cyril asked, slamming his hand on top of a gargoyle that was so worn it was hardly recognisable as a raven and muttering something under his breath.  
  
The gates swing open.  
  
“Welcome to Lestrange Manor. Ducket!” He looked around expectantly as he strode down the driveway. Nothing happened. “Blasted house elf.”  
  
Fleur caught Hermione’s eye, reminding her to keep calm and that now was not the time.  
  
The door ahead of them crashed open.  
  
“ _Who goes there?_ ” A man demanded, wand out.  
  
Hermione and Fleur had their wands drawn without a second thought.  
  
“Expel–”  
  
“Protego!” Fleur called out, cutting the man off at the same time as Hermione cast a non-verbal disarming spell.  
  
“Hold on, hold on!” Claude called, heading off a duel as the man dodged Hermione’s spell. “It’s Claude, Claude Delacour! Is that Floxel Lestrange? I wrote to you.”  
  
“Claude?” Floxel asked, lowering his wand a little and coming down the steps. “I was expecting you, though it was a surprise to hear from you. How did you get through the gates –”  
  
His sentence dropped off as he finally spotted the figures at the back of the group.  
  
“No, it can’t, Cyrille?” With far more agility than a man of his portliness should display, he launched himself forward and through Claude, Hermione and Fleur to grab onto his brother so tight Hermione thought she could hear bones crunch.  
  
“Jean?” Floxel turned to Hermione’s mother next, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He pulled her into a hug too, which was accepted politely, warmly even, though lacking the enthusiasm that Floxel displayed.  
  
“You look so old,” Hermione’s father commented with a small laugh, trying to piece together the memory of the man he thought he had seen only a year prior with the one standing before him.  
  
“You can talk. Look at you. I thought – we all thought you were dead.” Floxel reached out for his brother again, as though to check he was real and not a ghost. “When you left… Jodelle will be delighted. And Father and Mother.” Floxel was grinning from ear to ear, unable to take his eyes from his brother and sister-in-law.  
  
Then it fell a little, and he chanced a look at Claude. “We heard, well, you told us, you told us you were joining them, were on his side. Claude, I thought, am I not right in remembering Weasley as being the man your daughter married? He was one of the heroes of the war. Why would you help…?” Floxel trailed off, looking like he had broken his heart.  
  
“Monsieur Lestrange, I fought in ze war, but I never married,” Fleur answered.  
  
Floxel looked to Fleur for the first time. “You’re Fleur. I’m sorry, I should have – I was distracted.”  
  
“Understandable, Monsieur Lestrange. Perhaps if you were to look around, you might see another familiar face.”  
  
Floxel looked to Hermione, standing next to Fleur. There was a moment of absent recognition, where he hadn’t quite placed her, before it clicked. “Hermione Granger,” he said, a little awed.  
  
“There’s more to this story, Mr Lestrange, can we come inside?” Hermione asked.  
  
Floxel nodded, a little dumbfounded, before leading them inside.  
  
Hermione had expected it to be like Malfoy Manor, in fact she had psyched herself up for it so much that the reality was almost alarming. The entrance hall was filled with the colours of various quidditch teams and sporting various silver ware, and the reception room they were taken to was just as warm and inviting as the living room in Shell Cottage.  
  
“I’m going to call Jodelle and Father and Mother,” Floxel said, excusing himself momentarily. “I think they should hear whatever is about to be said.”  
  
Hermione was surprised at how quickly they responded to the call. Soon the room was filled with exclamations. A pair of feet thundered downstairs, and a woman around Fleur’s age came in carrying a screaming baby to add to the chaos.  
  
It was a bit of a relief that it went on so long, because it gave Hermione a chance to take one of her potions unnoticed, her hand beginning to twitch and head slacken.  
  
By the time the noise had quietened, Hermione had regained control of herself.  
  
“Now, an explanation is in order,” Cyrille the third, Hermione’s newly discovered grandfather, said.  
  
Hermione’s parents looked to each other, then to her.  
  
“Just tell them what you know,” she prompted.  
  
“We’ve been members of the Order of the Phoenix for over four years. When we saw how the ideology of the Dark Lord has been spreading in France, we had to do something. We heard Radolphus’ line was involved with the dark arts, that’s our family, our name. It’s our in. We moved in with Rodolphus and his wife Bellatrix.”  
  
Hermione shivered at the name as her father spoke.  
  
“Finding Order members isn’t hard. They spend their lives attacking Death Eaters, so once we established ourselves with Rodolphus, we became easy targets. Except we don’t attack back, when we can get away with it. Instead, we found a way to get word to them and we’ve been sending messages to Albus Dumbledore ever since. The Dark Lord can’t know we’re here; it will put you in danger. We shouldn’t have come.”  
  
Cyril looked around in panicked regret at the uncertain faces of his relatives.  
  
“It’s okay. No one will find out.” Hermione reassured before continuing the story. “They were compromised, or thought they were, or were pregnant,” Hermione said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know for certain, maybe they’ll remember properly, maybe they won’t, but they went into a sort of witness protection where they chose to have their memories wiped and live as muggles for the past twenty years. Until I altered their memories again to send them to Australia.”  
  
“I’m sorry, who are you and why did you have to memory wipe two people who thought they were muggles?” Jodelle asked.  
  
“Because they were two muggle parents of a witch on the most wanted list. Perhaps their muggle pseudonym will fill in the blanks. Jean and Cyril Granger.”  
  
Floxel was the first to piece it together.  
  
“You’re Cyrille’s daughter?”  
  
Before Hermione could respond, the front door slammed open, and a set of heavy boots stomped into the room.  
  
“Guess who I found in my flowerbeds?” A man about the same age as Cyrille the third grumbled, throwing another, scrawnier man with long matted hair to the wooden floor with a thud.  
  
“Rabastan!” Hermione’s father cried in delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - cliffhanger. But I couldn't resist a nice round number of chapters. Also, the next chapter will be up in 24 hours so...  
> If anyone is wondering about the family tree it's on the Harry Potter wiki site here: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Lestrange_family  
> Hermione's father is Cyrille IV, and the Fulcran who appears is Fulcran II. There are no specific dates attatched to the tree, so even though it appears in Fantastic beasts, I'm using it.


	17. Traitor

Hermione’s eyes went wide and her hand inched towards her wand. Fleur also discreetly shifted so she could both brush against Hermione and have better access to her own wand.  
  
“Fulcran, we’re family, Fulcr-” Rabastan stopped pleading as he heard his name.  
  
“What are you doing here? We were going to mention it to you, but we never thought you’d leave by yourself,” Cyrille continued happily.  
  
Rabastan Lestrange looked up through his hair, looking like a cornered animal waiting for the killing strike. “Cyrille? Is it really… Please, you have to help me, please, I have nowhere else to go. Rodolphus disowned me. I wouldn’t fight, and he disowned me. Cyrille, please,” Rabastan snivelled, a middle-aged man pathetically cowering on the floor like a child.  
  
“Oh, you poor thing,” Hermione’s mum cooed, standing up to go over to Rabastan.  
  
“Mum! Don’t!” Hermione yelled.  
  
Everyone in the room turned to her, to see her arm slightly twitching.  
  
Rabastan also looked. “Granger.” He spat. Then his face coiled in confusion. “Mum?”  
  
Somehow, his eyes widened further in fear, and he managed to coil even further in on himself, shifting away from Hermione.  
  
“Hermione?” her mother queried. “We’ve been trying to get Rabastan to defect for months.”  
  
“No. You haven’t. That was twenty years ago. After you went into hiding, this man,” she sneered, shakily standing to stare Rabastan down, “tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity. He was among Voldemort’s most devoted followers. He tried to kill me at the ministry two years ago and attacked the school last year. Even if you were too much of a coward to fight in the Battle of Hogwarts, it will never make up for what you, your brother, or your sister-in-law did.” Hermione’s scarred arm twitched violently.  
  
“The Longbottom’s?” Hermione’s mum asked, looking feint.  
  
“They had a son, a baby, and he stole his parents away. And they laughed about it to Neville’s face.”  
  
“They have a son?”  
  
“It’s been twenty years. Most of the order you know are dead,” Hermione said solemnly. “I don’t know how many he killed, but I do know he was there when Dumbledore died.”  
  
“Dumbledore’s dead?” her father asked as her mother gasped. “But, you said the war was over. How can it be if Dumbledore…”  
  
“Your daughter is a hero,” Floxel said, stepping forward to place a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Her and that Potter boy.”  
  
“James Potter?”  
  
“No, ‘arry,” Fleur answered. “His son.”  
  
“James and Lily were killed by Voldemort when I was two. It’s what ended the first wizarding war.”  
  
“Defeated by a baby, then defeated by a group of teenagers. Greatest dark wizard of all time,” Cyrille the third scoffed.  
  
“There was more to it than that,” Hermione mumbled.  
  
“He rose once, he shall rise again!” Rabastan declared, seemingly unable to help himself and quickly falling back to glancing nervously around the room.  
  
Hermione stalked forward, forcing herself to be sturdier than she felt. “No, he won’t. There isn’t a single shred of him left in existence. I tracked every last part of him down and obliterated them,” Hermione seethed, wand in hand and face low to Rabastan’s. “That was too good for him, death was too easy for your sister-in-law too, I should have made her suffer.”  
  
“’ermione.” Fleur’s hand curled around her trembling wand hand, though the tremors there were from anger, not the unintended muscle spasms in her lower back and left arm. “’ermione,” Fleur whispered again, gently pulling her away.  
  
“I guess I’ll be calling the aurors for three then,” the man who had dragged Rabastan in said.  
  
“No, only the one, Fulcran,” Cyrille the third corrected.  
  
Fulcran gave a stoic nod.  
  
“Please, no, I didn’t mean it. Please. I left. Please,” Rabastan begged, crawling along the floor towards Hermione’s parents.  
  
Fulcran booted him aside on his way out, the crack of disapperation was heard a moment later.  
  
Rabastan snarled and whipped out his wand.  
  
Hermione echoed the movement and soon spells were ricocheting across the room.  
  
Fleur dedicated herself to protecting the others in the room, particularly Hermione’s parents who had no means of protecting themselves, leaving Hermione free to send increasingly powerful spells at the accomplished duellist.  
  
Around her, the room faded, the comfort and welcome replaced with the cold of the department of mysteries, and the adrenaline of the battle of Hogwarts and every other moment she’d had to fight for her life and for those she loved and what she believed in. Her wand fell, stroke after stroke, curses flying from her lips just as often as being shouted through her brain.  
  
Rabastan was not as accomplished as his sister-in-law, though that was hardly comforting as it had taken four people and the element of surprise to take her down. Still, it was clear he was trained in duelling, and this was closer to traditional duelling than the all-out fighting Hermione was used to as she didn’t want to bring in outside elements such as throwing chairs, in case they ended up hurting her parents or Fleur. It was also easier for Fleur to protect herself and her parents, and the others, if Hermione kept the fight relatively static, another part where Rabastan’s traditional training had the edge.  
  
Yet, despite all this, Hermione was formidable, and knew a vast array of spells and creative uses for them which slipped under Rabastan’s defences, giving her precious time to combat his attacks.  
  
Still, the fight was well-matched, and Hermione didn’t want to lose focus or energy in a drawn-out duel, which again Rabastan and his traditional training would be more prepared for than the quickness of battle she knew.  
  
Suddenly, she had an idea. When her latest attack – a bat-bogey hex which was so innocuous Rabastan must have forgotten about it – hit, she used his moment of distraction to turn on the spot.  
  
The air around her constricted, and the room was filled with a deafening bang.  
  
Hermione landed on the other side of Rabastan, her next spell already in progress.  
  
By the time Rabastan had realised Hermione had apparated, the spell was cast.  
  
By the time he had realised she had apparated mere yards, his wand had been knocked out of his hand.  
  
Rabastan’s eyes widened at the witch who now held two wands, her face thunderous. All bravado he might have had, left him, and he turned to flee.  
  
Quickly a stupefy, petrificous totalus, and a binding curse followed him, slamming into his back and sending him to the floor.  
  
Hermione turned to see Fleur and the girl holding the baby with their wands pointed at Rabastan, and the rest of the room staring at her with wide eyes, a mixture of awe and very slight fear.  
  
“I like her,” the girl around Fleur’s age commented with a hint of an American twang, finally breaking the standoff and nodding towards Hermione as she returned her wand to making little sparks above the baby in her arms.  
  
“Thank you,” Hermione said with a small smile, blushing a little under everyone’s gaze.  
  
The baby started crying again.  
  
“Oh, Grandmère, can you take Nozéa? I can’t get her to settle,” the girl complained, holding the red-faced baby out.  
  
Before the older woman could move, Hermione’s mother had swooped in.  
  
“Oh, aren’t you lovely? You must be teething. Hermione was just like this. Have you got a soft bristle brush ready? It’s best to get them into the habit early.”  
  
The room looked at her like she’d gone insane.  
  
“They’re dentists,” Hermione explained awkwardly. “They help muggles look after their teeth.”  
  
“They look at teeth?” the older woman said with a hint of distain.  
  
“Luminosa,” Cyrille the third said as though he was trying to warn her of something he actually agreed with, “maybe it’s a well-regarded profession with the muggles.”  
  
“It is. It is,” Hermione quickly said. “They’re specialised healers. They had to do a lot of training, and they own their own business and earn a lot.”  
  
That seemed to calm her grandmother, as much as anyone would calm that day.  
  
Talk continued, with the attention turning to old memories, where everyone seemed to feel more comfortable. Fleur and Hermione were content to just listen as Claude occasionally chimed in with stories from school and Quintilla, the girl Fleur’s age and Floxel’s daughter, butted in on stories she had heard before or to get clarification on those she had not.  
  
Eventually, Fulcran turned up with a couple of aurors. Hermione and Fleur were surprised to see Gawain Robards, head of the british auror office.  
  
“I have to say, it is a surprise to see you here, Miss Granger. The Malfoy’s told us what happened at the Manor.”  
  
“Yes, well, I think we all know people aren’t their families. I lived in the residence of the House of Black for a time. Sirius Black wasn’t his cousin.”  
  
“Aye, very true. Well, we’ll be off. If there’s anything you ever need, you know where to find me. Good day.”  
  
The Granger’s and Delacour’s left an hour or so later, with promises that they would visit and keep in touch. Hermione couldn’t be sure how much it had truly helped and was sure her parents kept sending her confused and concerned glances, but that was a conversation for another time – a time when they hadn’t just seen her take down their relative death eater.


	18. Filling in the Blanks

“It’s my birthday next week,” Fleur said as they sat in bed together, waiting for the moment their peace would be disrupted by Gabrielle.  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hermione demanded, halting grooming a reluctant Crookshanks who appeared to have run through a hedge recently.  
  
“Because there is a lot going on, and this is nothing.”  
  
“It’s not nothing, Fleur. My fiancé is turning twenty-one!”  
  
“Is there some significance to that?”  
  
“You can get a pilots licence, or drink in America, or adopt a child–”  
  
“Oh, ma belle, is that a proposition?”  
  
“Shove off, I was only listing stuff.”  
  
“Why would I need a pilot’s licence when I ‘ave a broom?”  
  
Hermione groaned. “All I meant was, I’m celebrating my fiancé’s birthday.”  
  
“You’re what?!” Hermione’s mother half screeched from the open doorway.  
  
“This wasn’t how I was gonna tell you, this wasn’t how I was gonna tell you, this wasn’t how I was gonna tell you,” Hermione chanted into her hands, at least thankful that she and Fleur had been sitting politely expectant of Gabrielle’s arrival. “Where’s a time turner when you need one?”  
  
Hermione looked up at her mother, who had come to stand hands-on-hips next to the bed.  
  
“I was going to tell you. Madame Touraine just told us to give you a week to adjust after the procedure, after removing the memory changes, to not pile on too much new information. But – well I guess now you know so… Dad should be here. I’ll just…”  
  
Hermione cast her patronus, thinking of Fleur’s lips on hers, of the smiling faces of her friends. The otter leapt forth to deliver her message.  
  
“You can cast a corporeal patronus?” her mother asked, sitting down at the foot of the bed as she followed the fading silver trail with her eyes.  
  
“It’s weird, that you know as much about magic as I do now,” Hermione commented.  
  
“Maybe not as much. You are a very clever girl, Hermione,” her mother praised. “Is that a different wand?” she asked, eyes catching on the jet-black wood so strikingly dissimilar to her old one.  
  
“Yes. I… lost my other one in the war.”  
  
Hermione’s father appeared and immediately sensing the atmosphere in the room, joined his wife at the foot of the bed, a hand on Hermione’s foot.  
  
“That’s probably where I should start this. Losing my wand. I should tell you everything.”  
  
Hermione took a deep breath.  
  
“Just before I sent you into hiding, we’d discovered that Voldemort had been using horcruxes to make himself immortal. He’d break off bits of his soul to tie him to this world. That’s why he was able to rise from basically the dead at the end of the Triwizard tournament. Dumbledore had tasked Harry with finding and destroying these horcruxes because that was the only way to defeat Voldemort once and for all.”  
  
“But you’re just children!” her dad protested. “He should have been the one to do it. He’s Dumbledore.”  
  
“He died. He was killed, just before the end of my sixth year. That was why I had to send you away. Dumbledore wasn’t there to protect us anymore, and we knew we had to search for these horcruxes, the soul containers. The ministry fell about a week or two later and everything went into chaos. Muggleborns were outlawed, they had to be registered and turn in their wands, dark arts were being taught at Hogwarts, death eaters were out in droves. By then Harry, Ron, and I were already on the run, hunting down horcruxes.  
  
“Because of the muggleborn register, there were these groups called snatchers, like bounty hunters. We got picked up and when they recognised me, we got taken to Malfoy Manor.  
  
“As the house of her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange was living there. She picked me out and…” Hermione sighed.  
  
“I can’t wear long sleeves forever.”  
  
She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt.  
  
Her parents gasped at the word crudely carved into her arm. Even in its healed state, it was a ghastly scar.  
  
Her mother wrapped her hands around it, as though she could wish it gone, then pulled Hermione into a hug. When she pulled back, tears clung to her eyelashes, and looking past her to her father, Hermione could see that he too was struggling with his emotions.  
  
Hermione shook the sleeve out, till it fell halfway down her arm again.  
  
“You should also know that the potions you’ve seen me taking at breakfast aren’t supplements.”  
  
Fleur briefly squeezed her shoulder, a moment of support, giving her the strength to continue her tale.  
  
“A house elf, Dobby, gave his life to help us escape. Fleur ran one of the order safehouses with Bill Weasley, and that’s where we ended up. They helped us. Fleur helped me get better.” She shot a smile at Fleur.  
  
“But we still had to find the horcruxes and defeat Voldemort. And we thought one was in Gringotts. In the Lestrange vault.  
  
“I’d already found out about my heritage. I didn’t know how, but after using the Black’s family tree spell, I’d stumbled upon the truth. Bill and Fleur realised we were planning to break into Gringotts, and Fleur convinced me that it would be easier to claim this birth right I had just discovered.  
  
“So we went together, as she used to work at Gringotts. But they wouldn’t let her come with me to the vault because she wasn’t family – until I told them she was my fiancé.”  
  
“So, it’s a joke?” Hermione’s mum asked.  
  
Hermione shook her head. “Not when I said it in front of a goblin.”  
  
“It’s okay, sweetie, you can break goblin made contracts,” her mother said.  
  
“I know,” Hermione replied. “But we don’t want to.” She shifted closer to Fleur, taking her hand. “Fleur is incredible. I’m so lucky that I get to call her my fiancé.”  
  
“But you’re seventeen, you can’t get married!” Hermione’s dad argued.  
  
“We’re not getting married yet, and even though at seventeen I’m legally an adult, I’m almost nineteen, Dad.”  
  
That took the wind out of his sails. “Right, yes. Nineteen.”  
  
“I spent most of my teen years in a war. We’re both trying to work out what comes next, being engaged just means we’re going to do that together.”  
  
“Oui,” Fleur agreed, stopping herself from placing a kiss to Hermione’s hairline at the last second.  
  
“Do Apolline and Claude know?” Hermione’s mother asked.  
  
“Oui, which is why Gabby will be jumping in here at any second, even though we are two consenting adults and this bed definitely isn’t designed for three,” Fleur grumbled.  
  
Crookshanks stretched and let out a light meow.  
  
“Four if you include this one,” Hermione said, fingers going back to picking out the bits of twig and leaf in his fur.  
  
“I welcome your moody cat; I do not welcome my sister who kicks like she’s swimming the channel.”  
  
“It’s not forever, it’s just while we’re here. Do you want to stay for your birthday?”  
  
“Bill told me Molly would be ‘appy to host another dinner at the Burrow. So per’aps we can stay here until the morning and then floo over? You’d be more than welcome to join, I know you haven’t been to The Burrow before,” Fleur directed to Hermione’s parents.  
  
The change in topic seemed to throw Hermione’s parents off whatever feelings they might have about their daughter being engaged to Fleur and sharing a room with her. Instead, they were bewilderedly dragged into a conversation about whether or not they should bring Crookshanks to the Burrow or try to drop him off at Shell Cottage first, considering that last time he had been there he had traumatised the gnomes.  
  
The debate about whether traumatised gnomes was a good thing or not was deep underway when Gabrielle finally made an appearance, effectively kicking Hermione’s parents out of the bedroom as she demanded her space in the bed.


	19. Birthday Surprises

The morning of Fleur’s twenty-first, Hermione and Fleur were awoken in a similar way to the first morning they had arrived in France – except this time they had had even less sleep as Gabrielle had insisted on staying up until midnight to wish her sister a happy birthday and the only way she could manage that was a massive sugar high which she didn’t come down from until almost two in the morning.  
  
“ _Get up! Get up! Grandmère wants to see you!_ ” Gabrielle bounced on the bed.  
  
Hermione grunted as she took a knee to the stomach.  
  
“ _Gabby, I will hex you if you don’t stop moving this instant,_ ” Fleur threatened.  
  
“ _Grandmère won’t give you your present if you’re late,_ ” Gabby sing-songed, though kept still, weight deliberately on Fleur.  
  
“ _Fine, fine, I’m coming,_ ” Fleur relented.  
  
“I’ll be here when you get back,” Hermione promised, already half-way to curling back up into the pillows.  
  
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re coming with me.”  
  
Hermione sat bolt upright, knocking Gabrielle aside with an indignant squawk. “I’m allowed to come?”  
  
Fleur shrugged, though it was hard to see in the dark. “Maybe only to the edge of the flock’s lands, but I want you to meet Grandmère. And no doubt Maman has told her everything.”  
  
Hermione gently squeezed Fleur’s hand as she passed her to collect some clothes. “Thank you.”

  
  


The veela women and Hermione landed on the outskirts of a forest just as the sky was beginning to grey. The sun had not yet shown over the horizon but was not far off.  
  
Figures moved in the trees, slowly coming into the light from Hermione, Fleur, and Apolline’s wands.  
  
An ethereally beautiful woman, with long platinum blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to catch the light like the facets of sapphires, came forward.  
  
“ _Bon anniversaire, Fleur,_ ” she greeted, pulling her granddaughter into a hug and placing a kiss on each cheek. “ _And who might this be?_ ” she asked, turning to Hermione.  
  
“ _Grandmère, this is Hermione Granger._ ”  
  
“Ahhh,” Fleur’s grandmother said knowingly, shooting glances between the pair with a small smile.  
  
A soft horn sounded, and suddenly, everyone turned to the horizon, and the world fell silent as everyone observed the dawn, the fresh start of a new day. Around them, out of the silence, the world came alive. First one timid bird call, then the next, slowly building confidence and strength until the whole chorus was out.  
  
Hermione’s mouth fell open as the veela, faces bathed in the golden sunlight, opened their mouths, and harmonised with the music of every bird call. She turned to say something to Fleur, though she didn’t know what, only to find her singing as well.  
  
When the chorus finally pittered out to the generic sounds of the day, and Fleur had been swept away to be given birthday well-wishes by the rest of the flock, Hermione found herself cornered by Fleur’s grandmother.  
  
“Here,” she said, pulling Hermione’s hand to her own and dropping a small object into it. “When you’re ready for everyone to know.”  
  
Hermione looked down into her hand as everyone said their goodbyes. It was a ring.

  
  


Arriving at The Burrow was as chaotic as ever. Crookshanks had been stuffed into a cat carrier for the portkey journey and once again Hermione found herself grabbing a bit of old junk to be compressed through the air and spat out the other side. Only this time, her parents were standing opposite her.  
  
They landed, all four on their feet, outside the wall of The Burrow.  
  
“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in?” Bill called from the gate. “Quite literally,” he added, as Hermione let an angrily hissing Crookshanks out of his case and he rocketed off into the garden.  
  
“Happy birthday, dearest,” he said, obstructing the gate he had just opened for everyone by pulling Fleur into a hug and planting a dramatic kiss on her cheek.  
“Did I hear them arrive?” Molly came bustling out of the kitchen, dusting her hands on her apron.  
  
“Happy birthday, Fleur. Hello, Hermione. Welcome to our home, Mr and Mrs Granger,” she said in a continuous stream.  
  
“Ah, the muggles are here,” Arthur said, sticking his head out of the shed. “You know, we never got to finish our discussion on airy planes.”  
  
“Arthur, not now,” Molly scolded.  
  
Hermione felt a smile pulling at her lips. This, this felt normal.  
  
“Hey, ‘mione, you’re back,” Ron greeted, bounding out into the garden, followed by Harry, whose hair was messier than usual and who had a smudge of lipstick on his mouth.  
  
“Hi,” Hermione replied, noting Ginny slinking out as well, smoothing down her hair.  
  
“How was France? Did you have a good time?” Ron asked, rubbing the back of his neck and shooting a glance at Bill.  
  
“It was…” Hermione cast around for a description. “You’ve met my parents before?” She gestured to them. “We’ve just been sorting through all of that. And I met Dad’s brother and father and mother and niece and great niece and second something or other. Relatives. And I met some of Mum’s too. So that was… nice?” Hermione didn’t really think that was the right word, but it would do.  
  
“Ah, you must be Ron and Harry,” her dad sad, smiling at the boys in turn. “Hermione’s told us all about you.”  
  
“I guess we’ll be seeing you at King’s Cross when term school starts up again. That is unless Hermione’s staying with you again this summer. We haven’t got around to booking a holiday yet, the surgery’s been slammed, so we’re easy either way,” her mother said, conversationally.  
  
“Mum,” Hermione said gently. “We’re at Ron’s house. And we dropped out of Hogwarts last year.”  
  
Hermione’s mum blinked a couple of times. “Right, yes. I remember. Fleur’s birthday.” She turned to Molly. “Do you need a hand in the kitchen?” Hermione’s mother asked.  
  
Molly nodded with a kind smile, ushering Jean towards the house.  
  
“I could use your help in the garage,” Arthur said to her father, and soon everyone was splitting off to do their own thing.  
  
“That was…” Harry trailed off.  
  
“Bloody weird,” Ron finished.  
  
Harry elbowed him in the side.  
  
“Oi,” Ron protested. “I was only saying.”  
  
Hermione gave the boys a tight smile, aware of Fleur edging closer to her. “Don’t worry. Give them a bit of time and they’ll be able to remember who you are. Once they have familiar faces around them they seem a bit more aware of things.”  
  
“So it’s not, like, permanent?” Ron asked.  
  
“Dad keeps calling for his old house elf, and Mum keeps reaching for her wand. And they keep getting caught out by the weather and the fact that spiders aren’t going to kill them. It’s little things like that that probably won’t go away, but they’re making new memories.”  
  
“That’s good,” Harry commented. “If there’s anything we can do…”  
  
“Just not now,” Ron added, furtively looking around at the sound of something falling over in the house. “Gotta go.”  
  
With that he darted off inside, and with a mildly apologetic smile, Harry was quick on his tail.  
  
“It’s good to be back,” Fleur remarked, linking her hand with Hermione’s as they made their way inside.  
  
In the kitchen, Molly had Jean working away chopping up potatoes, and had collared Ginny into helping too. Hermione was glad to see that Molly didn’t mind that her mum wasn’t able to use magic, as her parents hadn’t recovered any wands and they hadn’t made another trip to Fairebois Wands yet.  
  
“Molly, iz there anything we can do to ‘elp?” Fleur asked.  
  
“No, no. Don’t be silly. It’s your birthday. Go, relax. Bill will be back from the apparition point soon and the boys should have finished their chores this morning.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes in Fleur’s direction. From Ron’s behaviour, there was a large chance he hadn’t completed his, and Harry had a similarly slim chance. In fact, from the living room window, she could spy Harry chasing around an errant gnome.  
  
Fleur and Hermione settled on the sofa, curled up together.  
  
“Are you having a good day so far?” Hermione asked.  
  
“With you by my side, ‘ow could I not?” Fleur kissed Hermione’s temple.  
  
Hermione could almost feel the weight of the ring in her pocket, it was tugging at her mind continuously. She hadn’t thought of actually proposing, it seemed absurd, they weren’t getting married, not for years, but now she had the ring, the idea of it sitting on Fleur’s finger, proclaiming to all the world that she was loved, it was an appealing prospect.  
  
Fleur ducked her head further, and captured Hermione’s lips.  
  
An awkward cough dragged them apart.  
  
“Sorry,” Ron mumbled. He began to turn to leave, then turned back. “Actually, I jus’ wanted to say, sorry for being a prat. Before you left. I was a big prat, and, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have needed Bill to knock some sense into me. I want you to be happy. You’re happy, ‘mione. We all should be happy, after everything. And that’s good. So, yeah, sorry for being a prat.”  
  
Hermione smiled up at him. “Thank you, Ron.”  
  
He crashed down into one of the armchairs opposite. “Besides, I’m working with George at the joke shop now, you wouldn’t believe how many cute girls want a piece of a war hero,” he said, flexing his muscles.  
  
“And there it is,” Hermione said to the ceiling.  
  
“Is it safe to come in?” Harry peered around the corner.  
  
Fleur glanced at Hermione, whose eyeroll appeared to have gotten stuck halfway. She chuckled. “Oui, ‘arry. It is safe.”  
  
Harry let out a dramatic sigh and entered. As he sank down into a chair, he tossed Fleur a package. “It’s not much, there hasn’t been much shopping opportunity,” he mimicked Hermione from his own birthday.  
  
Fleur unwrapped a singular chocolate frog card, signed in a messy scrawl. She turned it over to laugh at Harry’s unamused portrait looking up at her.  
  
“I thought you might find it funny. Heard about it just after you went to France. But seriously, here.” Harry pulled out another package and handed it over, though Fleur was too engrossed in teasing Harry about the biography on the card to open it for the time being.  
  
When the time for dinner came, the inside of The Burrow had been vacated in favour of a table set up outside. The Weasley’s were all accounted for, along with Hermione’s parents, the Lovegood’s, Dean and Seamus, McGonagall, Trelawney (who was almost ready to move out of Grimmauld Place and back into a nearly refurbished Hogwarts), Hagrid, Andromeda and Teddy, Kingsley, Neville, Harry, and Fleur and Hermione.  
  
“So, what did you get Fleur, Hermione?” Ron asked, trying his best to be supportive.  
  
“How about a–” Harry’s hand went over his girlfriend’s mouth and a solid thump sounded from underneath the table.  
  
Hermione thought about the footstall she had owl-ordered Fleur, that moved to wherever it was needed and should be waiting for her when they arrived home at Shell Cottage that evening. The ring felt even heavier now.  
  
She slipped her hand down into her pocket and circled her hand around it as everyone was still busy with the commotion Harry and Ginny had caused. She looked at Fleur, how her laughter lit up her whole face.  
  
She withdrew her hand, and in it, the ring.  
  
She held it out to Fleur.  
  
“Oooh, a ring. Nice. Sapphire’s help keep nargles away,” Luna commented, the first to spot what was going on.  
  
Everyone else turned to look.  
  
“Couldn’t even wrap it, ‘Mione?” Ron joked.  
  
“Is this? I thought I saw her give you something,” Fleur said quietly, taking the ring with delicate fingertips as everyone else berated Ron for his poor taste in jokes. She looked down at it, then up at Hermione through her eyelashes.  
  
“Well?” Hermione asked, barely above a breath.  
  
“Really?”  
  
Hermione shrugged, a barely perceptible motion.  
  
Fleur offered her left hand to Hermione, handing the ring back.  
  
Taking the ring, heart trembling in a mixture of nerves and excitement, Hermione slid it onto Fleur’s ring finger. When it was seated, she stroked the band, eyes locked on Fleur’s.  
  
“What just… What’s happening?” Ron demanded. “Oh, Merlin, did you just propose?” He asked, clutching his face, his expression shocked and excited and mystified all at once.  
  
The whole table properly rounded on them at the exclamation.  
  
“We were going to wait ten years to tell you,” Fleur said, with so much seriousness that even Hermione believed it for a second.  
  
“We’ve been engaged for four months,” Hermione added.  
  
Ron’s eyes bugged.  
  
“Get the champagne, we’ve got a wedding to plan!” Molly crowed.  
  
Fleur and Hermione groaned in unison; heads bowed together for moral support. This was going to be a long ten years.


	20. Epilogue: Five Years Later

“Hermione, are you sure heels are the best choice?” Hermione’s mother asked.  
  
“It’s fine, I’ve put the charm on them. I sent everyone a copy with the invites, there shouldn’t be any problems. You did manage yours right? Ginny too?” She looked at the red head in the mirror.  
  
“I’m not wearing heels, you’ve got to be kidding me, With these ankles?” Ginny rubbed her swollen belly and stuck out her foot as though demonstrating equally swollen ankles when all anyone could see was her sturdy and horrendously clashing quidditch boots. “Eurgh, I can’t wait until this little one is out. You couldn’t have picked a time when I wasn’t pregnant for the photos?”  
  
“But then Gabby would be in school, you and Harry would be off doing your quidditch season, as would Aunt Jodelle, Bill only lives with us half the year and the rest is jetting off the Egypt or wherever, and again, everyone who works at a school has time off.”  
  
Ginny grunted at the flawless logic.  
  
A knock sounded at the door. “Is everyone decent?” Harry asked, opening it a crack.  
  
“Yes, come in.”  
  
“Oh, Hermione, you look…” Harry trailed off, unable to find the words.  
  
“Are Ron and Dad ready to go?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Waiting outside with the portkey,” Harry confirmed.  
  
“You’ve taken your potion, and you’ve got the rest all packed ready?” Hermione’s mum fussed.  
  
“Yes, yes. And Ginny and Ron both has spares in case I need them today and I’m sure Fleur packed some as well, she always does,” Hermione huffed, pretending to be annoyed, but unable to keep the smile from her face.  
  
“Okay, then let’s go,” Harry said, waving everyone out of the door.  
  
“Hold on!” Hermione’s mum called. “One last thing.” She rooted around in her purse. “Here, a sixpence for your shoe. Everyone always forgets that.”  
  
“Thanks, Mum.”  
  
The group made their way down the staircase of The Burrow. Outside, they found Cyril and Ron having a conversation around a bouquet.  
  
“No one said a portkey has to be a rusty piece of junk,” Ron commented, picking it up and offering it to Hermione.  
  
She smiled as she took in the complementary blooms, which matched the buttonholes that Harry, Ron, and Cyril wore.  
  
“Better grab on,” Ron warned.  
  
Everyone leaned forward to grab the stem of the bouquet and soon the ground was snatched away from them.  
  
When they landed, it was on the softness of sand, with the light rush of the ocean and the smell of salt on the breeze. Music floated all around them and everyone was quick to fall into their well-rehearsed positions.  
  
Nozéa was there to meet them with Quintilla, who nudged her to the front of the group, basket of flowers on the five-year-olds arm. Then came Hermione herself, arm looped around her father’s. Harry and Ron walked side-by-side behind her, and Ginny and her mother brought up the rear.  
  
The music swelled, and out they stepped from behind a gauzy curtain.  
  
Just as she promised, the charm kept Hermione’s heels from sinking into the sand as she paraded up to the dais, where Cartswift was waiting.  
  
Once there, her bridal party took their places, Harry and Ron behind her and the rest in the front row, another song was transitioned into.  
  
More gasps whispered across the beach. Hermione fancied that her fiancé had elicited more than she herself had. She tried to count the beats, the steps, growing impatient to see Fleur. It was too much.  
  
Hermione turned.  
  
There, walking up the aisle, her smile radiating happiness, no one in the crowd able to take their eyes off her, was Fleur.  
  
She walked arm-in-arm with Claude, with Gabby holding her train, and Bill following behind.  
  
When she reached the dais, Hermione automatically sought her out, hands grasping for Fleur’s.  
  
“Eh-hm,” Cartswift cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today, to join together these two witches in the state of marriage.”  
  
Hermione could barely focus on what was being said, on anything but Fleur. She almost missed her queue to say her vows, and if it hadn’t been for the rehearsals, was sure she would have messed them up.  
  
“Five years after making your original contract with me, one I thought you would break, it is my delight to alter your engagement contract to that of marriage. I now pronounce you, wife and wife.”  
  
Fleur beamed at Hermione, and Hermione beamed back, before sealing the contract with a kiss.  
  
As Harry had once said, this is what they had fought for, something he never knew. Love. Love of family, love of friends, and love where she would for the rest of her life come home to that smile and wake up to it too. This had been worth fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we have it - the end.  
> As some of you have noticed, this is marked as a series. That doesn't mean there will be a part two following on from this. Instead, I'm planning a series of thematically linked pieces. They won't all be as long as this, and there will be a variety of ratings, perspectives, settings etc. The key to it though is Hermione as something. I've already lined up a few ideas that I'm working on and hopefully they won't be too far down the track. I've also got a few things outside of the series I'm working on/planning, both Harry Potter and not, but one of which is also Fleurmione.  
> Anyway, thank you all for sticking around with this, I hope to see you on future endeavours and I hope I sufficiently entertained you X


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